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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 










































































Drawn by W. R. Leigh. 

“ Bryan was hoisted upon the shoulders of his fol¬ 
lowers.” 


The Manufacturer of History. 
























THE~ LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Co«t6 Received 

OCT, 2 1901 

Copyright entry 

< 0 * 4 - 3 , Wot 

CLASS XXc. No. 

/ixr j - 

copy a. 


Copyright, 1900, by 

S. S. McCLURE CO. 

I9OI, BY 

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 


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CONTENTS 


A Manufacturer of History 
Charles Warren 

The Member from the Ninth 
James Gardner Sanderson 
Deepwater Politics . 

May McHenry 

Cavalleria Rusticana . 

George Beardsley 
A Temperance Campaign 
G. K. Turner 


A Manufacturer of History 



A MANUFACTURER OF 
HISTORY 


A STORY OF NEWSPAPER AND PO¬ 
LITICAL LIFE 

By Charles Warren 

R OPES was homesick for New York, 
homesick for every sight, smell, 
and sound of that splendid hetero¬ 
geneous, misgoverned city. He 
longed for the jostling crowds at the City 
Hall station of the Elevated in the late 
afternoon; he longed for the electric bril¬ 
liancy of Broadway when the theatres were 
emptying and the gay streams of pleasure- 
seekers were scattering to late suppers 
or to dances; he longed for a cozy din¬ 
ner for four on the Claremont piazza 
on a Sunday afternoon, the river flashing 


12 


Stories from McClure’s 


below in the sun, and the Palisades grim and 
shadowy opposite; he longed for the superb 
sweep of the Great Bridge, with its constant 
movement and distant tumult; for the 
notched sky-line of the city itself as seen 
when on some assignment at Staten Island 
or Jersey City. 

And instead of all this he had—what ? A 
ceaseless roll of undulatory prairie, an un¬ 
tidy and pretentious town of confused wood¬ 
en and brick edifices, a daily visit of the 
stage from Wawa Station on the Western 
Atlantic Railroad, the somewhat exasperat¬ 
ing and depressing daily contact with a 
large proportion of the 3,000 inhabitants of 
the town of Erona, and with their standards, 
views, and tastes, representative of that 
Western State which considered itself the 
pivot of the Union. The town itself was a 
disappointed place. It had been founded 
some fifteen years before in a burst of exul¬ 
tation, when it was supposed that the rail¬ 
road would go through it. It had grown in 
one year into a place of substantial and 
more or less dignified importance, and was 
made the county seat in anticipation of its 


A Manufacturer of History 


13 


glorious future. Then, on account of various 
engineering difficulties, the railroad officials 
decided to run their line some distance to 
the north ; and this change left Erona with 
the little station of Wawa, twenty miles 
away, as its nearest railroad connection. 
There was no town at Wawa, and there 
never could be; for the country was deso¬ 
late and unfertile. The nearest town to 
Erona was Boscober, thirty miles off to the 
west. There was nothing to bring any one 
to Erona itself, except during the sessions 
of the court, and they occurred only twice a 
year, in the spring and in the late fall. So 
the “ boom ” burst, and the. town rapidly 
grew shiftless in appearance and discourag¬ 
ed in spirit. 

William Rawdon Ropes, known by the 
townspeople of Erona generally as “ Blue¬ 
eyed Billy ” Ropes, had been a reporter in 
New York upon a well-known newspaper of 
large circulation. But although he was able 
and original in his methods, there was in him 
a streak of weakness, almost of laziness, 
which prevented him from ever being a man 
to overcome obstacles. And so after several 


14 


Stories from McClure’s 


years of faithful service, he had tired of the 
hurry and worry, of the dirt, of the foreign- 
born, of the competition—of New York, in 
fact. In November, 1890, he had sent in 
his resignation, received the pay due to him, 
and departed for the West. 

He had wandered from one place to an¬ 
other, gradually changing his point of view 
as he went, gradually realizing that New 
York was not the United States, and there¬ 
by becoming himself more of an American. 
But he had found nothing permanent to do. 
The West seemed filled with unemployed. 
His money melted away ; and in exact pro¬ 
portion his ambition decreased. One day he 
drifted into the town of Erona. And there 
he stuck. His newspaper experience made 
him an invaluable addition to the town ; and 
he soon became a combination of reporter 
and editor on the “ Erona Battle-Cry ”; 
general utility man,” he called himself. 

For six years Ropes had been at work, 
and now he was homesick. He had gone 
from New York a Democrat. The “ Erona 
Battle-Cry ” was a Democratic paper ; but 


A Manufacturer of History 15 

Ropes hardly recognized his own Democracy 
in it. When he had left New York, like all 
Easterners he knew in a dim kind of way 
that there was in the West a free-silver ques¬ 
tion. But the East believed that free sil¬ 
ver was a wild notion of some few cranks 
and politicians. Instead, Ropes found that 
it was the sober conviction of many of the 
best and most thoughtful men, business men 
as well as farmers. After some time in 
Erona he began to understand that “ Free 
Silver ” was hardly a financial or political 
question at all there. It was a religion. 
Every one believed in it. Even Bothwait’s 
paper, the “ Erona Star,” which was Re¬ 
publican, was in favor of it. 

One of the first tasks set to Ropes was 
to write a burning “ sixteen to one ” edito¬ 
rial. He had not protested ; and he was 
far too well trained a newspaper man not to 
be capable of writing a most able article in 
opposition to his own beliefs. So he com¬ 
posed an unimpeachable and fiery editorial 
that would have done credit to Senator 
Stewart himself. But, as an Eastern Dem- 


16 Stories from McClure’s 

ocrat, it rather disgusted him. And he had 
gone on for six years writing silver edito¬ 
rials, sick at heart. 

Sometimes Ropes wondered why he did 
not pull up stakes and leave the disagree¬ 
able task. Then he would look at his bank 
account, and decide to remain ; although his 
poverty did not make the taunts flung at him 
for his Eastern connections any easier to 
bear. But it is true, also that, as often as 
he considered breaking away from his sur¬ 
roundings and returning to New York, the 
great, “ limitless West ” fever would seize 
upon him ; and a distaste, almost a fear, of 
being thrown again into the crowded metro¬ 
politan struggle would come over him. 

The year 1896 arrived, bringing with it a 
culmination of the feelings of unrest and 
bitterness of the Western farmers in the re¬ 
gion of Erona, and of their sense of a gross 
injustice in the existing condition of affairs. 
Ropes had been so long away from New 
York that he had almost forgotten the char¬ 
acteristic attitude of the East—disregard for 
conditions outside itself. And so he was 
amazed at the utter ignorance shown by 


A Manufacturer of History 17 

Eastern newspapers of the real facts in the 
political situation. They treated the silver 
question as dead. Above all, they failed to 
understand that the issue which was soon to 
be made was not merely financial ; but was 
a social and a sectional one, which had been 
gradually shaping itself through years of 
growth, and of which “ Free Silver ” was 
the mere battle-cry. 

So heated was the feeling in Erona in 
June, 1896, that Eastern newspapers, owing 
to their gold tendencies, were not allowed in 
the town. The few men who still subscribed 
to New York papers discontinued their sub¬ 
scriptions. Even the weekly religious papers 
and monthly magazines were dropped and 
put upon the Erona Index Expurgatorius. 
u Coin’s Financial School ” became the Bi¬ 
ble, household library, and newspaper in one, 
in each home. Strangers who alighted from 
westbound trains at Wawa Station were 
warned not to bring into the town any ob¬ 
noxious “ Eastern sheets.” In some way or 
other, mail matter directed to citizens of 
Erona and containing gold documents never 
reached its destination. Eastern drummers 


18 Stories from McClure’s 

found it wiser to avoid any topic even re¬ 
motely connected with the currency ques¬ 
tion ; and also to pay and to receive pay in sil¬ 
ver dollars without comment on their weight 
or other disagreeable qualities. At the same 
time, Ropes found that a distinct coldness to¬ 
ward him as an Easterner was becoming 
prevalent ; and the constant flings made at 
him were intensely disagreeable. At first he 
was angry. Then he became desperately 
homesick for his native city. 

The Republican convention met at St. 
Louis and adopted a gold platform. That 
same day the “ Erona Star ” formally re¬ 
pudiated the convention and William Mc¬ 
Kinley ; and a truce was declared between 
its editor, Bothwait, and his former con¬ 
sistently bitter enemy, Arkway, the editor of 
the “ Battle-Cry.” Soon afterward news 
came of the great preparation that was be¬ 
ing made in the East to carry the Demo¬ 
cratic convention also for gold. 

And then one night, as Ropes sat in his 
little office waiting drearily for the forms 
to be made up, and longing for his old home 
and his old work, thoroughly embittered by 


A Manufacturer of History 


19 


what he had undergone during the past six 
years, an idea came to him. It was so great 
an idea, so audacious, so full of possibili¬ 
ties, that he sat up in his chair with a jerk 
and breathed hard. He saw the means of 
obtaining revenge upon a whole community 
for the mental strain under which it had 
placed him for so long. The room was close, 
and smelt of printer’s ink and damp paper. 
He felt that he needed air and open space; 
and he went out under the starlight into the 
long, straight, wide street which wandered 
off in the darkness over the prairie to the 
horizon. 

With the whole scheme, fair or unfair, 
mean or otherwise, plotted out in his mind, 
Ropes entered Arkway’s office the next 
morning. “ Arkway,” he said, “ how are 
you going to do the Chicago convention ? ” 

“ Do it like anything,” said Arkway. 

“ How are you going to have it written 
up ? ” said Ropes. “ Going to depend on the 
Press Association report, are you ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” said Arkway; “ what 
else can we do ? ” 


20 


Stories from McClure’s 


Ropes paused, and screwed his mouth up 
with a skeptical air. “ Well,” he said de¬ 
liberately, tapping his desk with his finger¬ 
nails, “ you won’t get any accurate, account 
of things as they really happened. You’ll 
never know from that whether the silver 
men were treated fairly or not. It’s my 
opinion those gold men mean to carry that 
convention by fraud, if they can’t do it in 
any other way. And if this is going to be 
done, we people out here want to know it, 
don’t we ? ” 

Ark way’s reply was more emphatic than 
explicit. 

“ We don’t want any faked-up press de¬ 
spatches written by men in the employ of 
Wall Street. Now, how are we going to 
get a straight story of that convention un¬ 
less we send a man there ? What I propose 
is this : You notify the Press Association 
that we don’t want their stuff about the con¬ 
vention, and that we won’t take it. Then 
send some man on there who’ll write you 
every night a decent, unfaked story. I don’t 
know,” he continued, “ how much the old 
sheet can stand. We did a pretty good busi- 


A Manufacturer of History 


21 


ness last year, and can afford to throw the 
cash around a little. Doesn’t it strike you 
it would boom the paper a great deal in the 
county if we could have a special ? ” 

Arkway whistled. “ Ropes/' he said, 
“ you've got a great head on you, even if 
you are an Easterner ; but I don’t quite see 
where the cash is coming from to send a 
man to Chicago, unless-” 

“ Yes ? " said Ropes. 

“ Unless I could get Bothwait to have the 
* Star ' join in and divvy on the expense. I 
believe Bothwait would do it, too. He’s hot 
against Bill McKinley now. I’ll talk it over 
with him. And we’ll send you, Ropes, if we 
send any man. You’re just the man, of 
course. You know all those New Yorkers, 
and you’ll hit them off to life. It’s a good 
scheme, a mighty good scheme.” 

Bothwait coincided with Arkway’s opin¬ 
ion of the idea. Arrangements were made 
to exclude all Press Association matter re¬ 
garding the convention from the columns 
of both papers ; and due announcement was 
made that the citizens of Erona and of 



22 


Stories from McClure’s 


Wawa County would have the unusual priv¬ 
ilege of reading “ unbiased accounts of the 
Chicago convention from the pen of our es¬ 
teemed compatriot, William Rawdon 
Ropes.” 

This news was a partial recompense to 
the people of the locality for their great dis¬ 
appointment over the fact that no delegate 
to the convention had been chosen from that 
portion of the county. As the county was 
over ioo miles in length, any notices or tele¬ 
grams that might come from a delegate 
elected from the other end of the county 
would not be likely to reach Erona. So, in 
return for the generous enterprise of the 
editors, most of the male citizens signed a 
subscription paper agreeing to buy the 
“ Star ” and the “ Battle-Cry,” and no other 
paper, local or foreign, for a month. 

On the ist of July, Ropes started for Chi¬ 
cago amid the cheers of the citizens of 
Erona. They would probably have been less 
effusive and more suspicious, if they had 
known that Ropes had withdrawn the en¬ 
tire amount of his small deposit at the bank, 
had packed in his trunk all his belongings, 


A Manufacturer of History 


23 


and had presented secretly, under oath of 
silence, the little furniture that he owned 
to his good-natured landlady. Just before 
the departure of the train, Arkway shouted 
out, “ Give us something hot in the reporting 
line, Billy; plenty of excitement.” 

As Ropes stood on the back platform of 
the car, and as Wawa station dropped 
nearer and nearer the horizon, he laughed 
out loud, and said to himself : “ They’ll have 
all the excitement they want in that town 
for the next ten days. I’ve got six years 
to pay back.” 

In a few minutes the black blot at the far 
end of the track dropped out of sight, and 
there was nothing but prairie. And William 
Rawdon Ropes walked back into the car, a 
free man, bound for the East. 

On Friday, the 3d of July, Ropes arrived 
in Chicago. That night, as he stood in the 
lobby of the Auditorium Hotel, a tall, leader- 
like-looking man walked briskly to the stair¬ 
way, and Ropes recognized him at once. It 
was William C. Whitney. At the sight of 
a good old New York face once more. Ropes 


24 


Stories front McClure’s 


nearly shouted with pure joy, and he felt 
almost like rushing up to him and shaking 
his hand, as a castaway on a desert island 
flings himself upon his rescuers. One by 
one others of the determined, but even then 
hopeless, band of gold leaders who had just 
come on with Whitney to Chicago went past 
him—Flower, Grant, and Fellows of New 
York, Smith of New Jersey, Gray of Dela¬ 
ware, Russell of Massachusetts, and Harrity 
of Pennsylvania, Francis of Missouri, 
Faulkner of Georgia, and twenty or thirty 
others who had been quietly summoned days 
beforehand by urgent personal letters from 
Whitney. They were holding a secret meet¬ 
ing in the ill-omened “ hoodoo ” room in the 
Auditorium, the famous room where the 
Tammany delegates four years before had 
framed their round robin of protest and in¬ 
vective against the nomination of Cleve¬ 
land. Ropes went over to the silver head¬ 
quarters at the Sherman House, and found 
a very much more encouraged set of men 
there. The silver leaders were confident of 
victory. Their plans had long been deter¬ 
mined upon. This was to be no 1892 over 


A Manufacturer of History 


2 5 


again. They knew that the rank and file 
of the delegates were pledged, and that 
even those unpledged could neither be 
bought nor argued with, and were entirely 
to be trusted. No compromise, no conces¬ 
sions—free silver or nothing, that was the 
sole idea of the leaders. The candidates 
were immaterial; and on candidates they 
were divided. The platform was the one 
essential; and upon that all their efforts 
were being bent. 

When Ropes went to his desk in the writ¬ 
ing-room to prepare his telegraphic letter to 
the “ Erona Battle-Cry ” and “ Star ” com¬ 
bination, he sat for some minutes thinking 
deeply. Then he determined that the effect 
of his scheme would be heightened by not 
putting it into effect just yet. He, there¬ 
fore, wrote out a despatch describing the 
situation just as he saw it and just as it was. 

And so it happened that the readers of 
the “ Erona Battle-Cry ” and of the “ Erona 
Star ” the. next morning, far off in the 
West, shouted with joy as they read the 
graphic description in their morning papers, 
and remarked to each other what a clever 


26 


Stories from McClure’s 


young fellow that Ropes was; and Arkway 
and Bothwait congratulated themselves upon 
their enterprise in sending just the right 
kind of a representative to Chicago. 

Fourth of July dawned a fine, clear day, 
and Ropes saw that the Western delegates 
and their attendant followers in crowds were 
already on the ground, while the Easterners 
and Southerners had hardly begun to arrive. 
At the Palmer House, masses of excited men 
were beginning to struggle, and scuffle, and 
boil up and down the lobby, the corridors, 
and stairs. Upstairs the various State dele¬ 
gations, wild silver States and solid gold 
States indiscriminately, had taken their 
rooms along the wide corridors. Here and 
there along the narrow hallways could be 
seen, vigorously and desperately pleading and 
arguing to impervious listeners, Whitney, 
Russell, Eckels the Comptroller of the Cur¬ 
rency, Everett of Massachusetts, Don Dick¬ 
inson, and many other of the gold leaders. 

The rooms opening upon the stairways 
and upon the balconies that overlooked the 


A Manufacturer of History 27 

lobby below were taken by the States having 
Presidential candidates. In and out of these 
passed unbroken lines of visitors—partisans, 
supporters, and foes—all alike eagerly tak¬ 
ing the buttons, badges, and campaign litera¬ 
ture lavishly distributed by the boomers of 
each candidate. And above the constant 
shuffling and tread of the crowd was the dull 
roar of talk and argument, argument and 
talk, everywhere, around, above, and benumb¬ 
ing the senses with its constant impression. 
Lines of pictures of Boies, Bland, Blackburn, 
and Pennoyer of Oregon were strung every¬ 
where across the lobby, and were stuck upon 
the pillars and the balustrades. Everywhere 
in the streets were venders of campaign 
emblems and buttons with 16 to I in every 
conceivable combination ; and the utter 
hopelessness of the gold cause was in no way 
more clearly signified than in the almost 
complete lack of campaign buttons bearing 
gold leaders’ names. That night Ropes at¬ 
tended the great Gold Standard mass meet¬ 
ing in the Auditorium theater. But he real¬ 
ized that it was all a waste of energy; and 


28 


Stories from McClure’s 


that no converts could be made among such 
earnest silver disciples as those with whom 
he had lived for the past six years. 

On Sunday the representatives of Democ¬ 
racy began to take possession of Chicago in 
earnest. Every half-hour a distant band an¬ 
nounced the arrival of a fresh club or dele¬ 
gation. Among the first to arrive and to fill 
the streets and hotels with noise was the 
Bland Silver Club of St. Louis, 500 sturdy 
silverites in linen suits and caps with 
“ Bland ” in silver letters upon them. “ Sil¬ 
ver Dick, the people’s choice,” seemed the 
war-cry all over the hotel portion of the city. 
Down the street and up, marched men bear¬ 
ing transparencies, “ Turn the people loose 
and let them vote for Bland.” Then later 
in the day the Blackburn Club of Lexington 
marched in, and the Matthews Club of In¬ 
dianapolis, the Jacksonian Club of Omaha, 
and 100 members of the Bryan Club of Lin¬ 
coln, and last, and unusually quietly, the 
Tammany Club. 

In the middle of the day, Ropes heard 
that Bland’s supporters were claiming half 
of the delegates. Texas already had voted 


A Manufacturer of History 


29 


to support him. The doubtful factor was 
the position of the Illinois delegation, which 
remained silent and quiescent under the 
thumb of the sphinx-like Altgeld. The. pale 
Illinois governor remained all day at the 
Sherman House amid a swirling, surging 
mob, giving no sign of his position or of his 
preference, but calmly biding his own time. 
Toward evening the enthusiastic Boies 
“ boomers,” “ shouters,” and “ rooters ” be¬ 
gan to make their presence felt. Boies’s 
stock began to rise with the newspaper men. 
It was in the air that McLean of Ohio was 
to have the nomination for Vice-President. 
Bryan, the young, ambitious Nebraska poli¬ 
tician, was being talked of as temporary 
chairman; for the silver men were so con¬ 
fident that they believed the National Com¬ 
mittee itself would seat the silver delegates 
from Nebraska. 

Ropes sat at his own desk, and as he fin¬ 
ished each sentence with zest, his face wore 
broad smiles, showing the pleasure and satis¬ 
faction which his work was giving him. The 
fulfilment of the Great Idea, of the scheme 
of retaliation upon the Eronites was begin- 


3° 


Stories from McClure’s 


ning to take definite shape. He wrote fairly 
accurate descriptions of the streets and ho¬ 
tels; but every now and then he inserted a 
few words, the effect of which upon the 
Eronites he could picture to himself with 
ease. Then he began to draw upon his im¬ 
agination for long accounts of events which 
had never happened. He told his Western 
readers how Whitney’s assiduous work and 
that of the other Eastern leaders was begin¬ 
ning to tell—how he, Ropes, had met three 
Alabama and two Texas delegates who were 
weakening. He threw in a few dark hints 
as to promises of money and of offers that 
were disturbing the minds of the Indiana 
delegates. He described enormous clubs of 
Eastern business men who were arriving on 
every train and buttonholing every delegate. 
He described at length an alleged plan which 
the gold men on the National Committee had 
formed to seat a contesting gold delegation 
from Illinois and thus throw Altgeld out of 
the convention. This he showed could easily 
be, and was certain to be, carried out. He 
worked up an elaborate and exciting account 


A Manufacturer of History 


31 


of a meeting between Altgeld, Stone, Bryan, 
and Tillman, which, he wrote, he had hap¬ 
pened to overhear, and which showed their 
anxiety over the unreliability of their fol¬ 
lowers. Then he gave a glowing description 
of Saturday’s gold mass meeting and the 
number of silver delegates whom it had con¬ 
verted. After filing this in the telegraph 
office, he went to bed well satisfied; and the 
smile lingered on his lips even after he fell 
asleep, as he dreamt of the terrible denunci¬ 
ation which would be heard through the 
shiftless streets of Erona the next morning. 

Monday morning, the leaders seemed to 
be in seclusion. The National Committee 
was meeting, and final plans were being laid 
for the various candidates. Ropes devoted 
the day to gathering impressions of the per¬ 
sonality of the delegates. One fact imme¬ 
diately impressed him as peculiar to this con¬ 
vention. The professional politicians were 
not in the ascendant here. But the plain, de¬ 
cent, small business men and farmers, hard- 
worked, and bitter with real and fancied 


3* 


Stories from McClure’s 


grievances, had the bit in their teeth and 
were about to smash all previous political 
records to atoms. 

Conflicting rumors came from all sides. 
One man told Ropes that Bland was no¬ 
where ; the next, that the three “B’s” were 
the only victorious sign—“ Bland, Bimetal- 
ism, or Bust ”; the next, that the labor vote 
was all going to Boies. In the afternoon 
the name of Teller came like magic from 
every one’s lips. Newspaper men dashed for 
the wire, and telegraphed that the conven¬ 
tion was apparently drifting to the Colorado 
statesman. Then came the first, apparently 
accurate, information that Altgeld was for 
Bland. That seemed to settle the question, 
for every candid observer saw that Altgeld 
was the ruling power in this seething mass. 

Ropes flashed over the wires that night a 
portrayal of the foregoing situation as he 
saw it. Then with imaginative generosity 
he presented the gold men with a fictitious 
gold Illinois delegation alleged by him to 
have been seated by the National Commit¬ 
tee along with the South Dakota, Nebraska, 



A Manufacturer of History 


33 


and Michigan gold delegations, and he laid 
great stress on the votes of the National 
Committee as representative of the way in 
which the convention was going. He stated 
that already the silver men could rely on 
but about half the delegates; and on top of 
all he wrote a sentence which was calculated 
to strike panic into his readers at the other 
end of the line. It was as follows: “ My 

Washington correspondent telegraphs me 
that President Cleveland, four of his cabinet, 
and J. Pierpont Morgan leave Washington 
to-night for Chicago, where they will rally 
the gold forces. ,, He then described a series 
of bitter fights between the various silver 
candiates and the threats of each to throw 
their votes for Pattison or Russell, rather 
than let the other be nominated; and he 
stated the great posibility that they would 
unite, if at all, not upon a Democrat, but upon 
Stewart of Nevada. Ropes knew that the 
farmers of Erona hated Stewart, believing 
him a selfish mine-owner, little better than 
the mining and railroad stock speculators 
of the East. All this was written with fine 


34 


Stories from McClure’s 


detail, embellished with all the art of the 
old and practised newspaper man that he 
was. 

The next morning in Erona great head¬ 
lines appeared on the bulletin boards. 
“ Traitors in the Ranks.” “ The Renegade 
Cleveland Goes to Chicago.” Consternation 
could be seen on the faces of all the local pol¬ 
iticians, while Arkway and Bothwait in 
their editorial columns tried manfully to re¬ 
vivify the failing confidence of their readers. 
A Boston drummer who arrived on the stage 
from Wawa Station that afternoon was firm¬ 
ly advised to take the next train onward; 
and sectional feeling was so intense that 
Jake McCulloch, the stage-driver, urged An¬ 
drews the station-master at lonely Wawa 
station to warn strangers who alighted there 
proposing to visit Erona, that it would prob¬ 
ably be pleasanter for them to come again 
later in the season. 

Later in the afternoon a ranchman rode 
over from Boscober, the nearest town, thirty 
miles away, and seemed surprised at the po- 


A Manufacturer of History 


35 


litical gloom at Erona. He had heard that 
a letter had been received in his town from 
a delegate at Chicago in which nothing was 
said of the discouraging condition of affairs 
of which Ropes was sending such vivid ac¬ 
counts. “ That just shows what a corking 
good reporter we’ve got up there,” said 
Jackson Holmes, the district attorney; and 
Arkway looked pleased, and treated every 
one to drinks. 

The morning of the day of the convention, 
Tuesday, was again cool and cloudless. The 
portion of the great hall walled off for the 
convention, with its 20,000 seats, being but 
one-third of the whole great building, filled 
rapidly with spectators. As Ropes sat in 
his press seat, on all sides rose a gentle in¬ 
cline of packed faces, masses of black and 
white, back to where the girders of the great 
roof joined the walls. Down in the center of 
this great mass was a vacant, oblong, flat 
space looking like a brown stretch of marsh 
filled with bulrushes; for from every group 
of seats allotted to the various delegations 


3 6 


Stories from McClure’s 


rose a tall rod with a triangular, bright blue 
tip, bearing the name of the State painted 
vertically. 

Soon the delegates began to straggle in. 
Whitney came in one of the first, alone, amid 
little excitement. Blackburn and some sil¬ 
ver men got little applause; then Hill came 
slowly with a group surrounding him, like a 
general with his staff, and the applause was 
loud. Senator Jones of Arkansas, stocky 
and looking like a good fighter, Stone of 
Missouri, spare and sallow, and Altgeld, 
white-faced, bent, alert, with pointed black 
beard and close-cropped hair were in close 
conference. Russell, the popular young ex- 
Governor of Massachusetts, was being sur¬ 
rounded by delegates from the Southern 
States wishing to shake hands and re¬ 
gretting that they could not vote for him. 

Amid intense excitement, Harnty, as 
chairman of the National Committee, called 
the convention to order at 12:53. The first 
fight was started by the presentation of 
Hill’s name for temporary chairman; and 
the expected outbreak came very soon, when 


A Manufacturer of History 37 

ex-Governor Waller, stern and pugnacious, 
took the platform. “ Will you turn down 
David B. Hill ? ” he cried. “ We will,” shriek¬ 
ed the delegates. Waller stopped, then rais¬ 
ing himself and glaring at his audience, he 
said slowly and with concentrated bitter¬ 
ness : “ Turn down Hill, and I’ll tell you what 
we’ll do. We will fight you, fight you here 
and elsewhere for your indignities and in¬ 
sults.” Hisses arose from all around, the 
delegates jumped from their seats, and Ropes 
thought that violence would follow. 

Then Thomas of Colorado, “ the tall Pine 
of the Rockies,” spoke calmly and power¬ 
fully ; and after him others spoke eloquently 
for the silver side. Colonel Fellows of New 
York followed, with his grizzled hair, and his 
benevolent yet austere face looking like that 
on an old Roman coin. For once, his art and 
his pathos were in vain. By a vote of 556 to 
349 Hill was unseated, and the opposing can¬ 
didate, the courteous Senator Daniel, looking 
like a second Edwin Booth, was led to the 
chair by Senator Jones, and the formal ap¬ 
pointing of committees began. 


38 


Stories from McClure’s 


That night, Ropes began to prepare to 
throw his second bombshell into the peace¬ 
ful and hopeful town of Erona. While he 
was seated in the convention that day a tele¬ 
gram had been brought to him. It read: 
“ Send us something encouraging. People 
of Erona alarmed at silver treachery.” He 
had laughed aloud in pure joy, and crumpled 
the telegram into his pocket as he thought 
of the despatch which he would send that 
evening. 

This was the account that Ropes wrote to 
satisfy the guileless people of Erona in their 
desire for good news. Beginning with a cor¬ 
rect description of the convention hall and 
the gathering of the clans, he continued: 
“ It is evident that the sympathies of the 
vast audience are entirely with the gold men. 
No silver leaders received any applause. The 
gold delegations from Nebraska and Michi¬ 
gan haye been greeted with cheers by their 
fellow-delegates. It looks as if the South¬ 
ern silver men were to be pacified by income 
tax and State-banks planks in the platform.” 
Then he went on to describe the attempt of 


A Manufacturer of History 


39 


the convention to throw down the National 
Committee candidate for temporary chair¬ 
man, the exciting debate, wonderful speeches 
by William C. Whitney and Waller, and 
finally the very close vote which, he wrote, 
seated David B. Hill as temporary chairman 
by a majority of only two—453 to 451. 
Then he gave an account of a frenzied at¬ 
tempt to reconsider the vote and of the gain 
of one vote by the gold men on the reconsid¬ 
eration. He pictured the retirement of the 
beaten silver leaders, pale and anxious, from 
the convention at its adjournment. Then, just 
as a sop at the end of his despatch, he stated 
that the above vote probably did not repre¬ 
sent a gold majority, because several silver 
men had undoubtedly voted for Hill rather 
than begin the convention in so revolution¬ 
ary a manner as by overturning all previous 
precedent. “ The most likely man now to 
be nominated for the Presidency is William 
E. Russell of Massachusetts. The silver can¬ 
didate will be either William J. Bryan, who 
voted for the Populist candidate in 1892, or 
Teller.” 


40 


Stories f rom McClure’s 


It was not until five o’clock in the after¬ 
noon of Wednesday that the real excitement 
began, when the Committee on Credentials 
recommended, by a vote of twenty-seven to 
sixteen, the unseating of enough of the gold 
delegates from Nebraska and Michigan to 
throw the votes of those States for silver 
and to procure the necessary two-thirds ma¬ 
jority. The uproar increased as the dusk 
came on and the electric lights shone out. 
Cries of “ vote, vote,” rose from every¬ 
where. 

When the vote was finished, and the result 
showed for the first time the strength of the 
silver forces, 558 to 368, the silver tumult 
began in earnest. Standards were wrenched 
from their places. Hats, flags, newspapers, 
handkerchiefs, chairs, flew round in the air. 
Then the newly seated Nebraska delegation, 
headed by Bryan, marched in. Senator 
White was elected permanent chairman, and 
the disorder ceased only when the conven¬ 
tion adjourned late in the night. 

Before Ropes sat down at the telegraph 
desk to prepare his daily despatch, he took 
a telegram out of his pocket which he had 


A Manufacturer of History 


41 


received that day from the president of the 
Erona Silver Club. “ Citizens of Erona will 
subscribe two hundred dollars to save the 
country from ruin and to keep delegates 
from being bought by gold bugs. Notify 
Jones.” 

“ They certainly are feeling badly down in 
Erona,” murmured Ropes, and thereupon 
he wrote the following: “ Southern States 
still weakening. State banks and coinage of 
seigniorage promised by gold leaders. Ac¬ 
tion of the convention to-day decisive of the 
fact that gold men have obtained a majority. 
Michigan and Nebraska gold delegations 
seated by vote of 466 to 460. Tremendous 
excitement followed the announcement of 
the vote, and in answer to an insult thrown 
at a Mississippi delegate three delegations 
assaulted each other. Several men were seri¬ 
ously hurt. The police were called in by 
temporary chairman Hill. It is believed the 
gold men intend to have enough silver men 
arrested to secure them a safe majority. 
Senator Gray of Delaware was elected per¬ 
manent chairman, and Senator White, the 
silver candidate, defeated. It is now evi- 


42 


Stories from McClure’s 


dent that the platform will not be for free 
silver at sixteen to one. It may still be a 
compromise. William J. Bryan has been un¬ 
seated, and is now present merely as a spec¬ 
tator. He is not likely to be even a candi¬ 
date for the Presidency.” 

When this telegram was received in 
Erona, the editors of the “ Erona Battle- 
Cry ” and of the “ Erona Star ” held a con¬ 
sultation to consider the advisability of pub¬ 
lishing it. “ We’d better get our guns 
ready and board up the office windows. 
Who knows what will happen to-morrow 
morning when the boys read that ?” groaned 
Arkway. “ Why doesn’t Ropes fake up 
something, if he can’t write better news 
than this. What’s the use of his sending us 
this stuff, even if it is true ? ” 

Bothwait said bitterly: “ What did we 

send him for, anyway ? I thought he had 
more sense than to write us the gold-bug 
side. Why doesn’t he put on a good bluff, 
even if things are going wrong ? What’s he 
there for ? ” 

After the Eronites had fully digested the 
contents of the morning papers, their first 


A Manufacturer of History 


43 


impulse was to go down to the offices and 
shoot the editors, their next was to tele¬ 
graph to the governor of the State asking 
him to call a meeting of the legislature pre¬ 
paratory to the secession of the State. 
Finally, they compromised on calling an im¬ 
promptu meeting on the court-house steps, 
where every orator in Erona was given a 
chance to vent his rage and disgust and to 
air his views of the situation. 

The day that was to decide the future 
course of the Democratic party, Thursday, 
July 9th, was again a cool, clear day. 

The platform, to frame which the Commit¬ 
tee on Resolutions had sat up all night, was 
read monotonously by Senator Jones. Little 
excitement followed the reading of the silver 
resolution, for that was a foregone conclu¬ 
sion. As the succeeding planks, however, 
were heard, the newspaper men sat in in¬ 
creasing amazement. Even the delegates 
themselves seemed partially aghast at the new 
doctrines. Then Hill arose slowly, and read 
the very shrewd minority amendments to the 
silver plank. Tillman, the one-eyed, smooth- 


44 


Stories from McClure’s 


shaven, keen-featured Senator from South 
Carolina, came energetically forward with a 
bitter attack on the East. 

Hill followed him with a powerful, tactful, 
and effective speech. The audience barely 
listened to half of it. After Hill, William 
E. Russell, pale and worn, his ringing voice 
choked with emotion, made the last speech 
that he was destined to make in this life—an 
appeal more in sorrow than in anger against 
this destruction of the party to whose suc¬ 
cess he had devoted the work of a crowded 
lifetime. The utmost silence and attention 
waited on his few words. 

Then a tall, robust, sallow-faced, large¬ 
headed man with long black hair came upon 
the platform, and was greeted with cheers. 
It was William Jennings Bryan. Few were 
prepared for what was to follow; but Bryan 
had come to Chicago with his speech in his 
pocket, resolved to stake all upon it, and de¬ 
termined to sweep the convention before him, 
out of his path to the Presidency. As he 
proceeded, his audience grew more and more 
excited. When he rolled out, “ Why, that 
man who used to boast that he looked like 


A Manufacturer of History 


45 


Napoleon, that man shudders to-day when he 
thinks that he was nominated on the anniver¬ 
sary of the Battle of Waterloo,” the uproar 
made it impossible for him to continue. As 
he described the farmer as the basis of the 
prosperity of the country, he touched the per¬ 
sonal responsive chord in each silver dele¬ 
gate. Ropes, even with all his gold beliefs 
and affiliations, sat fascinated and impressed, 
knowing that it was all false, claptrap, 
wrong, illogical from his standpoint, but 
held entirely under the spell of the excite¬ 
ment of the scene and the fervor and inten¬ 
sity of the oratory. Amid a painful still¬ 
ness, the orator finished in tones of slow, 
solemn protest: “ Having behind us the 

commercial and the laboring interest and all 
the toiling masses, we shall answer their de¬ 
mands for a gold standard by saying to them, 
* You shall not press down upon the brow 
of labor this crown of thorns. You shall not 
crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.’ ” 
There was a pause. Then occurred a wild 
and hysterical uprising; waves of deafening 
cheers and yells swept from end to end of 
the building and back again, unceasing in 


46 


Stories from McClure’s 


their tumult. Delegates stood on chairs, 
uncontrollable, frenzied. The audience also 
seemed frantic. A Georgia delegate sud¬ 
denly tore away the State blue-tipped rod, 
raised it high aloft, and started to rush to¬ 
ward the. Nebraska delegation. Indian Ter¬ 
ritory raced down to follow him with its 
stick. Illinois, South Dakota, Missouri, Vir¬ 
ginia, Alabama, Kentucky, Ohio, Iowa, Ten¬ 
nessee, Mississippi, Michigan, Utah, Ne¬ 
vada, California followed. A grand proces¬ 
sion of State rods and delegates started 
around the delegates’ inclosure. Bryan was 
hoisted upon the shoulders of his followers 
and carried with it. 

Altgeld, Jones, and others of the Bland 
leaders were hastily conferring together, 
looking pale and disturbed. They saw the 
handwriting on the wall. The convention 
was evidently stampeded. All the newspaper 
men were rushing despatches to their home 
papers stating that Bryan would surely be 
nominated for President. 

It was fully thirty-five minutes before 
quiet was restored. The platform was car- 


A Manufacturer of History- 


47 

ried, 628 to 301, and the old Democratic 
party had ceased to exist. 

In the evening, with a crowd of about 
24,000 people present, the nomination of 
Presidential candidates began. The dele¬ 
gates and the visitors were still hot from 
Bryan’s hammer strokes of the morning. 
The name of Bryan was on the lips of every 
one who hurried across the enormous lobby. 
The animosity shown toward the Eastern 
man was such that Ropes felt that the slight¬ 
est pinprick, might produce an explosion. 
Every one sat nervously waiting the end of 
the convention, and hoping that actual force 
and violence might be averted. The feeling 
was intensified as, during the progress of the 
roll-call of States, the gold delegations sat 
sullen in their seats, either omitting in silence 
to answer the call or stating in bitter words 
their present position in the convention and 
the reason why they had no candidate to of¬ 
fer. 

Meanwhile, however, the flow of eulogy 
for the different silver candidates was going 
on as each silver State was reached in the 


4 8 


Stories from McClure’s 


roll-call. The confusion and noise made it 
impossible to hear the speeches. The gal¬ 
leries had become wholly unmanageable. 
Time and time again the chairman pounded 
his desk, and the sergeant-at-arms threat¬ 
ened to have them cleared; but the audience 
in its might simply laughed at him, and at 
last began calling rhythmically “ vote, vote.” 
By this time the Bland leaders were fully 
convinced that a vote taken then meant 
Bryan’s nomination without question. Their 
only chance was for delay. Bland had 360 
votes, but could he hold them? Finally, 
after midnight, to the great disappointment 
of the audience, the convention adjourned 
and the delegates, thoroughly exhausted in 
mind and body, drifted back to the city. 

That night Ropes was obliged to summon 
his fullest powers of imagination. This was 
to be his masterpiece. Although he was not 
a politician, and although he found it a little 
difficult to construct a national political plat¬ 
form entirely out of his own head, he finally 
succeeded in his undertaking; and when he 
read over that portion of his despatch which 


A Manufacturer of History 


49 


described the platform supposed to have been 
adopted by the convention that day, he felt 
that he had a right to be proud of himself. 
He had just finished describing the speeches 
upon the platform. He told of Hill’s great 
speech and of Russell’s, and of the hisses that 
greeted Tillman. All mention of Bryan’s 
speech had to be left out, because in a pre¬ 
vious despatch he had deposed Bryan from 
his place as a delegate, and had set him back 
among the spectators. And then he had pro¬ 
ceeded to the composition of the platform. 
It certainly was a masterpiece. Every doc¬ 
trine, every idea which he knew to be par¬ 
ticularly odious to the people of Erona and 
of that section of the country he inserted. 
He gave a plank to a fulsome indorsement 
of President Cleveland. He indorsed the 
bond issue. He declared for civil service 
reform and for pension reform, for a larger 
army and navy, and, finally, to cap all, for 
the gold standard. Only at the end did he 
attempt to salve the feelings of his readers 
by making a present to them of an income- 
tax plank. 

When the telegram was carried in to Ark- 


5o 


Stories from McClure’s 


way and to Bothwait, the effect was like that 
of a cyclone. Both grabbed their hats and 
rushed to the telegram office, where they sent 
off this message: “ William R. Ropes, Audi¬ 
torium Hotel, Chicago. Return at once. ,, 
Meanwhile the news had spread around the 
little town. Men seemed dazed. It was 
unbelievable, impossible, monstrous. They 
could not conceive of this stupendous frus¬ 
tration of all their hopes and desires. Yet 
there on the bulletin boards was that fright¬ 
ful headline: “ Platform at Chicago De¬ 

clares for Gold Standard.” “ Gold Bugs 
Win by Treachery.” Even when they 
bought the papers and saw the horrid news 
set forth in plain, presumably unlying type, 
they refused to accept it as true. 

Some few men were impatient at the ac¬ 
count given in the local papers, notwithstand¬ 
ing the fact that Ropes had given the best 
of his faculties in its preparation. They de¬ 
sired to learn more of the details of the great 
disaster, the great “ crime of ’96,” as they 
called it. And they were sorely tempted to 
break their compact, forswear all their pre¬ 
vious statements as to “ Eastern sheets,” 


A Manufacturer of History 


5i 


and ride the whole twenty miles down to 
Wawa Station, where, on the arrival of the 
12.40 eastern express, they could obtain the 
daily papers from some of the big and de¬ 
spised cities. But their loyalty to the silver 
cause even in time of trouble overcame their 
curiosity to ascertain the full extent of its 
defeat, if that knowledge had to be gained 
from the “gold-bug press.” And no man of 
Erona showed his face that day at Wawa 
Station when the express came by. No one 
happened to ride over again from Boscober, 
the nearest town, thirty miles away. And 
so it happened that Ropes’s scheme worked 
even more successfully than he had consid¬ 
ered possible, for he .had hardly expected 
that he could carry on the deception to the 
end. 

Friday, July 10th, when the convention 
met, nothing remained to be done except the 
voting. Harrity of Pennsylvania put in 
nomination Robert B. Pattison of that State, 
so that those gold men who did not choose to 
remain silent could have some candidate for 
whom to vote. Then the balloting began. 
There was hardly enough doubt in the minds 


Stories from McClure’s 


5 2 

of most of those present to make the contest 
exciting. Even the Bland men had lost hope. 
Besides, the visitors and the delegates them¬ 
selves were completely worn out by the hys¬ 
terical scenes through which they had passed 
of late. The first ballot showed Bryan, 119; 
Bland, 235; Boies, 85; Pattison, 95,—and 
on each successive ballot Bryan gained, Bland 
held his own, and Boies lost, until on the 
fifth ballot, when the States began to break 
away from Bland, Bryan’s nomination was 
made. This was about three o’clock in the 
afternoon. The cheering was loud and long, 
but there was a lack of earnestness and 
heartiness. Any applause sounded mild af¬ 
ter the wild scenes of the previous morning; 
and, after all, the victory was almost too 
easy. Most of the gold leaders had left the 
convention by the fifth ballot, and while the 
cheering was going on they were far away 
at their hotels packing up and making ready 
to leave the city, saddened and filled with ill 
forebodings for the future of the party and 
of the country. After dinner the delegates 
returned to the convention hall in a half-in¬ 
terested way, and without enthusiasm, and 


A Manufacturer of History 


53 


for no particular reason that was given by 
any one, nominated Arthur Sewall of Maine 
for Vice-President. 

Ropes sat long at his desk before he could 
make up his mind just what kind of a climax 
he should compose for his astounding feat of 
historical fiction. To his amazement, no tele¬ 
gram had come to him to tell him that Erona 
had discovered the deception. He had writ¬ 
ten an elaborate and exciting account of the 
nominations of the evening before, transpos¬ 
ing names in an ingeniously astonishing man¬ 
ner and attaching descriptions of the actual 
scenes of enthusiasm to imaginary speeches 
nominating prominent gold men. That was 
easy. The question then presented itself to 
him, Whom should he nominate for Presi¬ 
dent ? He thought of William E. Russell of 
Massachusetts, but that would not be suffi¬ 
ciently distasteful to Erona. Finally he con¬ 
cluded that the most obnoxious name, would 
be that of William C. Whitney of New York. 
Thereupon he wrote a glowing account of 
Whitney’s nomination on the seventeenth 
ballot by a vote of 602 to 144 for Teller; 90 


54 


Stories from McClure’s 


for Bland; 48 for Boies; and 36 for Bryan. 
Then for an ingenious, mocking, finishing 
touch he inserted one truthful fact into his 
web of lies, and described the unanimous 
nomination for Vice-President, as a sort of 
consolation prize for the free-silverites, of 
an Eastern silverite, Arthur Sewall of Maine. 
When he signed his name to the end of this 
telegram, he gave a sigh. His fun was 
over. But what a glorious revenge it had 
been! It was almost worth the six years’ 
experience through which he had gone. It 
was also worth the cost of the telegrams and 
of his hotel bills; for Ropes was not so mean 
in spirit as to make his employers pay for 
his fun. He had paid out of his own pocket 
for every word of every telegram which he 
had sent and for all his expenses at Chicago. 
The result was the almost total disappearance 
of his six years’ small savings. But that was 
of no consequence at all. 

His telegram announcing the nomination 
of the ticket of “ Whitnev and Sewall ” did 
not cause the sensation in Erona which Ropes 
had hoped for, because the people were 
now prepared for and callous to the worst of 


A Manufacturer of History 


55 


bad news. They received it sullenly and al¬ 
most silently; and they remained in this 
temper throughout the morning, and up to 
the hour of three o’clock. 

The inhabitants of Erona will probably 
never forget the hour of three o’clock on the 
afternoon of Saturday, July n, 1896; for at 
that hour Jake McCulloch jerked up a pair 
of foam-covered, exhausted horses in front 
of the “ Erona Battle-Cry ” office, and yelled 
and shrieked like a madman. It was some 
time before any one could gather any mean¬ 
ing from the disjointed words and oaths that 
flew wildly from him. Then somebody 
caught “ Bryan ”—“ President ”—“ Ropes.” 

A minute later, the whole population had 
learned the news; and a raving mob stormed 
through the absolutely empty room in the 
boarding-house formerly occupied by “ Blue¬ 
eyed Billy ” Ropes, late of the “ Erona Bat¬ 
tle-Cry,” and now fervently consigned by the 
passionate desires of every man in firona 
to a very undesirable and subterranean 
locality. 

And at that very moment, ten minutes past 
three on the afternoon of July nth, William 


56 


Stories from McClure’s 


Rawdon Ropes was hastening toward the 
East on the New York limited, never again 
to visit the unhealthy town of Erona or the 
great and limitless West. 

A week later the editors of the “ Erona 
Battle-Cry ” and the “ Erona Star ” re¬ 
ceived by mail a bill for “ salary for services 
performed at Chicago, July ist to July ioth,” 
receipted in full, and attached thereto were 
receipted hotel and telegraph bills and a slip 
of paper with these words on it: “I trust 
my efforts to give you 4 plenty of excite¬ 
ment ’ were satisfactory.” 


The Member From the 

Ninth 















THE MEMBER FROM THE 
NINTH 

A STORY OF DOMESTIC AND POLITI¬ 
CAL LIFE 

By James Gardner Sanderson 

T HE contract man of the Asphalt 
Company had already been twice 
to the house to confer with 
Michael, and now, even while 
Michael lay ill, he had come again. It 
was a matter to be mentioned with much 
pride to Mrs. Monahan as Nora did her 
Monday’s washing on the back stoop; and 
Mrs. Monahan’s trans-railinged propitia¬ 
tion, born of her landlord’s rising impor¬ 
tance in the community of Shanty Hill, was 
deeply gratifying. To know a member of 
the Select Council, however that organiza- 


59 


6o 


Stories from McClure’s 


tion may belie its adjective, is something. 
“Isn’t he the by now! ” ejaculated Mrs. 
Monahan, admiringly raising two red and 
soapy hands. 

To which Nora, not even trying to repress 
her honest pride, rejoined: “I’m thinkin’ 
me Mike is as good as anny of thim. It 
isn’t ivery man has min like that a-followin’ 
him around.” 

“ An’ to think of hims havin’ a saloon and 
ownin’ this house at his age,” continued Mrs. 
Monahan. “ Dear, dear, and my man’s old 
enough to be his father—widout a cent.” 

“ There wor three carriages came yister- 
day,” said Nora joyously, while her soft 
cheeks bloomed. “ Squires, wid silk hats 
and illigant clothes, 1 think they was.” 

Mrs. Monahan laughed indulgently. 
Nora’s gray eyes and open Irish face bid 
strongly for indulgence—even from her own 
sex. “ Sure, we have no squires here,” she 
replied. “Ye should know that be now wid 
the three years ye’re over. ’Tis the street 
car and telephone companies’ managers more 
like.” she added shrewdlv. 

“ And why ?” asked Nora blankly. She 


The Member from the Ninth 


61 


was too used to her mistakes to trouble over 
them. 

“ Tis his infloonce they want,” said Mrs. 
Monahan meditatively. “ I donno—but I’ve 
seen thim big wans before, and ye can make 
up your mind, Mrs. Conry, that they’re afther 
it.” 

“ Maybe,” answered Nora sedately, after 
a little moment of uncomprehending silence. 
“ It’s me Mike they’re afther, though; that 
I know.” 

“ And well ye may. He’s a great lad in 
the ward annyhow,” said Mrs. Monahan, 
“ and it’s me that hopes to see him mayor 
some day. Will ye not come over and luk 
at me pigs, Mrs. Conry? ” 

Within the house Michael lay ill and fever¬ 
ish. It was against the doctor’s orders, but 
the contract man of the Tonsor Asphalt 
Company was with him. 

The councilman was but one of a hundred. 
Bom in the County of Kerry, he had set his 
face and ambitions toward America some five 
years before the visit of the contract man 
above mentioned. He had left Ireland and 
the shackles of its bogs and evictions, chiefly 


62 


Stories from McClure’s 


for the sake of Nora’s gray eyes; but the 
pungent odor of his native peat was scarcely 
free from his nostrils before that had become 
a secondary matter. His calculating heart 
and soaring ambition permitted nothing else. 
The sorrow of their parting vanished; he 
flung himself body and soul into the game 
and won. 

After the first inevitable struggle in New 
York, he had drifted westward, and finally 
reaching Pennsylvania and the manufactur¬ 
ing city of Dalton, his bark had become 
wedged in the current. During the first 
year he ran a “ speak-easy,” until it brought 
him enough profits to embark legitimately in 
a small saloon. Then, under the protecting 
scroll of a license, he had made his venture. 
From this vantage ground his eyes first 
looked on ward politics with their wondrous 
possibilities. They attracted him and his 
native shrewdness, coupled with a certain 
quickness in reading his fellowmen, soon 
gained him his footing. His energy and the 
success of his saloon increased it. At the 
end of the second year, he had become a cap¬ 
tain on the city’s police force, and the right- 


The Member from the Ninth 63 

hand man of the mighty Coogan, who held 
the Ninth in the hollow of his palm. 

Incidentally, the office was not without 
profit. He bought a lot next his saloon, bor¬ 
rowed money from Coogan, built a double¬ 
house, and, after much cogitation, sent for 
Nora. She had come; fresh, comely above 
all other women in the Ninth, quaint in her 
never-failing wonder at the great new world, 
and admirable in her unswerving, trusting 
adoration of Michael. The hills and dales 
of Kerry were in her gentle gray eyes, and 
her soft brogue, falling gratefully upon the 
ears of the ward, sent many a warped Irish- 
American memory wandering back to an all 
but buried past. The hearts of men and 
women instinctively went out to her in pro¬ 
tecting tenderness. Even Coogan, the thin¬ 
faced, far-sighted “ boss,” with all his un¬ 
scrupulous schemes of plunder, found his 
heart beating a faster measure in her pres¬ 
ence. 

But because Michael loved her and knew 
that she loved him, trusting in his honor and 
strictest integrity with the implicit faith that 
a woman gives to her husband before he 


6 4 


Stories from McClure’s 


sways from the pedestal on which she has 
placed him, Nora lived happily upon the 
proceeds of steals and the candid filchings 
of ward money, unknowing and uncor¬ 
rupted. Knowing that these things which 
had become almost second nature to him 
would be to her not less than heart-break¬ 
ing, he guarded her ignorance sedulously. 
To himself he often said, “ Sure, she’d 
raise fury if she knew. ’Twon’t do.” 
To her he growled in response to timid in¬ 
quiries regarding certain inexplicable trans¬ 
actions, “ It’s not for you to know. Wud 
I tell ye and ye Mrs. Monahan, and lave me 
be the laugh of the ward ? ” It was never 
necessary to further protect the star ses¬ 
sions of the ring which met in the rear room 
of “ Conry’s,” next door, for Nora’s softer 
brogue was never raised in protest. Her 
faith in Michael suffered no doubts. The 
king could do no wrong. 

In two years’ time Michael had risen to 
greater successes, riding into the Select 
Council on the crest of the usual wave of 
doubtful reform. Prosperity poured in an 
unending stream upon the Conrys. The 


The Member from the Ninth 


65 


cabbages spread magnificently; the ducks 
waddled fatly, and the two children throve 
through lusty babyhood. Coogan only was 
discontented, and growing to like Nora more 
than a peaceful mind permitted, frowned 
darkly. His position and intimacy gave him 
privileges. “ I made ’im, Nora; y’ should 
be thankin’ me, girl,” he said, devouring her 
with hungry eyes. “ Aye! And d’ye know 
why, Nora? D’ye know why?” he added 
tenderly. 

And Nora with innocent coquetry, albeit 
startled a little deep in her heart at his tone, 
replied saucily: “ Nor do I care, Coogan. 

Sure ye can’t make me believe me Mike needs 
help of anny one.” 

Through all the visits of the mysterious 
silk-hatted men who came in carriages, and 
through all of Michael’s increase in girth 
and riches, she remained in contented igno¬ 
rance of ways and means. Her pride and 
simple belief in his success and integrity 
grew stronger daily. Even Coogan’s calls, 
which grew more frequent with the passing 
of time, and which, though made on the plea 
of business with Michael, generally occurred 


66 


Stories from McClure’s 


when he was away, left no trace upon her 
clear-eyed, wholesome innocence. 

The contract man sat on a chair and 
watched him lazily through a cloud of cigar 
smoke. His polished shoes rested flatly up¬ 
on the red and green jute rug, and his open 
coat afforded glimpses of a heavily embroid¬ 
ered waistcoat and a fob, with which he 
played absently. “ It ought to go through,” 
he said slowly. 

“ ’Tis r-robbin’ the city,” replied the sick 
man cautiously. “ It’s the same pave you 
people put down five years ago, and luk at 
th’ condition av it now.” 

“ Well—it’s all getting mighty hot,” said 
the contract man, yawning until his eyes dis¬ 
appeared in the rolls of his fat face. “ You, 
being sick, don’t know. Just thought I’d 
drop up and try to show you our position, 
you know. Half the boys want us to repair, 
and half favor a city plank with a brick pave. 
Neidlinger and Hawkes, of course, want the 
city to run it. They’re not selling bricks 
and cement for nothing. It’s a bad fight, 
though, and your vote for us would clinch it. 


The Member from the Ninth 67 

Both sides are firm as rocks, and we want 
one man for our majority. We’ll put in a 
good pave, if we’re let, too. A fair contract, 
and a ten-year guarantee.” 

“ What’s your bid ? ” asked the sick man 
indifferently. 

“ A hundred and seventy-five thousand for 
resurfacing and keeping every mile of pave 
in town in repair for ten years.” 

“ Ye’ll make a lot o’ money,” said Michael. 

“If we get the contract,” said the con¬ 
tract man smoothly. “ And I can assure 
you, Conry, that our friends won’t regret 
it,” he added significantly. 

“ Well—I donno,” said Michael. “ I ain’t 
been down in some time. I cud go down 
Thursday, I suppose, but I guess now I 
won’t. I’m too sick.” 

The contract man cleared his throat. He 
felt that the councilman’s speech was tenta¬ 
tive, for these were not their first dealings 
together. Nevertheless, some things re¬ 
quire diplomatic handling. “ It ought to 
go through,” he said again, persuasively. 
“Yes, it ought! The city’ll be disgraced if 
this keeps on. Besides—I’d like to see you 


68 Stories from McClure’s 

on the right side. If—if there is any friend¬ 
ly arrangement we can make-” 

Michael thought of his mortgages, certain 
notes held by indefinite corporations, and 
lastly of Neidlinger and Hawkes’s offer 
of the day before. 

“ I mighty near broke my leg over that 
steam-roller of yours on Linden Street last 
year,” he said moodily, staring at the ceil¬ 
ing, “ and I donno about me helpin’ you. 
What have you iver done for me? I owe 
you nothin’. It’s no help but a damage suit 
of fifteen hundred I’ll bring, I’m thinkin’— 
and that as soon as I get out.” 

The man smiled sleepily again. He was 
used to the work; but this seemed unusually 
easy. “ That can be settled out of court,” 
he said easily, rising and smoothing his hat. 
“ We don’t want any trouble with you. If 
you really think you’re damaged that badly, 
I’ll see that you get it—unless the mayor 
vetoes. It’s a good deal, though.” 

“ It’s that or nothin’,” said Michael grim¬ 
ly. “ There’s other claims I have of the 
kind against other people,” he added. “ Sind 
me wife in as ye go out. I think me head 



The Member from the Ninth 1 69 

is goin’ to break. Fifteen hundred, mind ye. 
No cint less/’ 

“ I'll take care of it,” said the contract 
man, “ if that’s the least.” 

“ It is,” said Michael. “ Me feelings were 
hurted by your r-roller.” 

The Select Branch of the Dalton City 
Council, that august, deliberative body 
which, with its companion organization, the 
Common Council, holds the fortunes of so 
many corporations and contractors balanced 
upon its giant thumb, had convened for its 
regular Thursday evening’s session. The 
gray-haired president sat on his platform 
gazing abstractedly at the crowds which 
thronged the pillared galleries. On the floor 
the municipal fathers lounged in awesome 
and obese ease in their semi-circle of arm¬ 
chairs, or strolled here and there, gathering 
in knots and small oases of twos and threes, 
bandying persiflage, of a dignity commensu¬ 
rate with their station. 

The biggest fight of the year was on. That 
“ ten-tentacled octopus,” as the Congress¬ 
man’s daily had dubbed the Tonsor Asphalt 


70 


Stories from McClure’s 


Company, was in the field to try conclusions 
with the virtuous Neidlinger and Hawkes, 
leaders of the city-plant faction. The cor¬ 
poration was again at war with the individ¬ 
ual. 

Yet the question of repairing the streets 
had risen to such a position of burning im¬ 
portance in the city’s welfare that every 
land-owner was bound up in its interests. 
Five large, manufactories had already been 
lost by the Board of Trade because of the 
high rate of taxation and the poor streets. 
The immediate mitigation of the latter evil, 
at least, meant much to that short-sighted 
and narrow-minded citizen who was foolish 
enough to demand stridently—as if he could 
be answered—“ where the money was going 
to? ” 

As the first dull routine of business dragged 
on stragglers drifted in. The galleries be¬ 
came more crowded. It had become noised 
abroad that on this night the famous dead¬ 
lock would at last be broken, and that the 
Asphalt Company had a card up its sleeve. 
An air of general expectancy and tense ex¬ 
citement was manifest as the hour for bring- 


The Member from the Ninth 71 

ing up the resolution drew near. A buzz of 
subdued conversation hummed through the 
anxious balconies. But in the gallery the 
contract man smiled sleepily—albeit a little 
anxiously, for Michael had not yet arrived. 
In a few moments he rose, elbowed his way 
through the crowd, and disappeared. Five 
minutes later he imperturbably pushed back 
to his seat. 

Ten minutes afterward the venerable pre¬ 
siding officer placidly declared Mr. Hawkes, 
who moved to refer the asphalt question to a 
committee, of which he suggested the names, 
to be out of order, and in the midst of a 
painful silence the clerk wearily rose to read 
the resolution and to call the roll. As he 
had done both on this question for six con¬ 
secutive meetings, and as he dealt not in 
bricks, cement, or asphalt, he was somewhat 
tired. 

The crowd in the gallery craned their 
necks. Those who were nearest the rail 
leaned far over, straining their ears to catch 
every word. Almost to a man they would 
have voted for the city plant, for they feared 
with the fear of poverty-stricken property- 


7 2 


Stories from McClure’s 


owners the awarding of the contract to the 
Tonsor Asphalt Company. It meant ten 
more years of corruption; it meant the. retire¬ 
ment in disgust and discouragement of those 
few sterling men in the councils who held the 
honor of the city and the welfare of its citi¬ 
zens at heart. The question as to whether 
the government of Dalton’s 100,000 souls 
lay in the hollow of one corporation’s hand 
hung upon the flimsiest of threads. The cor¬ 
poration’s victory would be the last glaring 
proof that the councils were, body and soul, 
its property. 

And all the crowd left Michael Conry out 
of their reckonings. It was known that he 
lay bound down by typhoid fever; the con¬ 
tract man had been cunning enough for that, 
so they were justified. But in the gallery 
the contract man yawned. He felt that it 
was his party. 

“ Ferber,” droned the clerk. 

“ Aye.” 

“ O’Malley.” 

“ No.” 

“ McCarthy.” 

“ No.” 


The Member from the Ninth 


73 


“ Getstall.” 

" Aye.” 

Evenly the votes broke, ward by ward, 
first, second, third, fourth—there was no 
wavering in the ranks. It was a fight to 
the death. Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth; 
still even. The anxious galleries held their 
breath. 

“ Conry—ninth,” called the clerk as usual. 

There, was no answer. The president be¬ 
gan slowly and stiffly to worm into his over¬ 
coat. 

“ Conry.” 

Still the silence of absence. No answer. 
The asphalt man smiled as though bored. 
For the last time the clerk’s voice droned 
the name. “ Conry.” 

“Aye!” 

The clerk wheeled, looked up in the gal¬ 
lery savagely—and the contract man looked 
back at him. He leaned forward, his pudgy 
hands hooked viciously around the railing; 
and his eyes, now far from sleepy, glared 
a malevolent, tiger green. He was smil¬ 
ing snarlingly, like a wolf in a corner. 
The president stopped with his arm half 


74 


Stories from McClure’s 


in his sleeve; the members gasped; the 
people craned their necks; and five seconds 
later, in the midst of the hush, the chamber 
door swung open, and Michael Conry, 
bright-eyed and flushed, strode dizzily to his 
seat. 

“ Aye! ” he cried. “ That’s me vote! 
Yis! ’Tis the steam r-roller 1 like. Take 
that to yourself, Hawkes! ’Tis a blow f’r 
old Ireland! ’Tis—’tis—” Then while 
some one led him babbling and staggering 
away, many others, even in the midst of the 
uproar, saw that the vote was properly re¬ 
corded. 

For the next month Michael Conry lay 
ill beyond the skill of man. The will that 
dragged him from his bed to the Council 
Chamber availed him nothing, and he tossed 
in wildest delirium. Nora, watching by his 
bedside, grew haggard and thin with sleep¬ 
less anxiety. The soft bloom left her cheeks, 
dispossessed by hollows of deepest woe; her 
voice lost all its happiness, and her gray 
eyes dulled with anguish and bitter pain, for 
as the days dragged monotonously on, deep 


The Member from the Ninth 


75 


in her heart there sank the knowledge that 
Michael—her Michael, her dear lord and 
master—was going to die. 

Coogan and Mrs. Monahan came daily. 
The doctor did not count for comfort, for 
despite Nora’s clasped fingers and white, ap¬ 
pealing face, his science could do no good. 
At night she watched and kept her vigils 
alone. When the baby cried fretfully in the 
still, dark hours, she walked with her in the 
next room, singing her to sleep with choking 
lullabies of Ireland. When the day came 
again, though the child still slept, the drowsy 
sun found her sitting fully clothed, eyes hag¬ 
gard with the dumbness of their pathos, be¬ 
side Michael’s bed. Bravely and with the 
whole devotion of her love, she sat watching 
and ready to move at the slightest flutter of 
his eyelid. Her worn cheeks grew to rival 
his as he lay slipping away from her, and 
the enduring little figure drooped lower and 
lower as the strain began to tell. But not 
even the vigorous Mrs. Monahan could shake 
her resolution. “ I’ll stay till I die,” she 
said to her protests, “ or till he dies. ’Tis 
all the same. Me place is here.” 


76 


Stories from McClure’s 


As the hot June days slipped smoking by, 
Michael grew worse more rapidly. Some¬ 
times he raged in fits of blasphemous deli¬ 
rium, and sometimes he babbled meaning- 
lessly of every one in his past, from his old 
father in Kerry down to his wife and Coo- 
gan. Nora thought she understood nothing 
of ward money and protection, felt another 
of the few remaining chords of her heart be¬ 
ing wrenched and torn to pieces when, his 
emaciated hand beating unceasingly upon the 
spread, he moaned and muttered bits of Irish 
phrases or spoke in a weird, far-off voice of 
little Michael, the baby, and herself. In one 
hour he would be in his father’s shanty deep 
in talk with him and with his mother; in the 
next he would fiercely contradict a statement 
made by an imaginary Coogan in the rear 
room of “ Conry’s.” As a rule, Nora’s touch 
and gentle “ Whist now, Mike, dear,” would 
soothe him; but Coogan he could not suffer 
near. For some occult reason, though he 
did not recognize him, Coogan’s presence 
made him rage like a madman. 

Then at last there came a period when, 
free from the chains of delirium or the un- 


The Member from the Ninth 77 

consciousness of stupor, he looked around 
the room, and saw death waiting in its far 
corner. He awoke to consciousness only to 
realize that he was in a deal with one far 
mightier than himself, and more inexorable 
than Coogan in his insistence upon his share. 
He was conscious of a slight surprise, as his 
mind grew clear, that no horror of death 
possessed him, and he even found the con¬ 
templation of non-existence slightly interest¬ 
ing. Later he began to think. 

Nora’s strained white face and the droop¬ 
ing lines of her young figure as she moved 
about the room inspired within him a strange 
new tenderness. It was with an odd feeling 
—a feeling almost as if he were planning 
again for their after-life together—that he 
gradually arranged his business affairs into 
mental orderliness. At last he called her, 
and as she came obediently and sat down 
upon the plush-covered chair beside the bed, 
he caught his breath, conscious of a sharp 
stab of pain. 

“ Nora, dear,” he said, taking one of her 
hands nervously, “ ye’ve been a good woman 
to me, and it’s sorry I am I’ve been no bet- 


7 8 


Stories from McClure’s 


ther a man; if I’d known—but now my time’s 
most up. ’Tis too late.” 

The tears that Nora had so long and so 
courageously held back welled out, and the 
dreadful finality in his voice and words broke 
down her courage at last. She threw her¬ 
self upon her knees beside the bed. “ Oh, 
Mike! Mike, me darlint,” she wailed in an¬ 
guish, “ don’t go! Don’t —1 can’t do widout 
ye. Ye’re all I have. All I have, Mike, 
dear. Don’t be lavin’ me—” and she broke 
off in a torrent of sobs. 

Michael watched her. He was too weak 
to comfort her, and the knowledge was bit¬ 
ter. “ Don’t dear,” he whispered after a 
little. “ I’m not gone yet. Time an’ a-plinty 
to cry thin. Besides—there’s something I 
must tell ye, and—and it’s bad enough I feel 
already.” 

Nora straightened herself bravely. “ I 
don’t know what I’ll do widout ye,” she said 
simply. 

“ It’s that I want to talk about,” said 
Mike weakly. “ I didn’t think I’d have to 
tell ye. ’Twould have been all right, but 


The Member from the Ninth 


79 

now—well, I’m in debt, Nora, and the house 
and saloon’ll have to go.” 

“ They can all go,” replied Nora, “ all of 
thim—if you’ll only stay. Wid you I don’t 
need thim. Widout you what would I do 
with thim ? ” 

“ The house and saloon,” replied the sick 
man, pressing close upon his single thought. 
“ All you’ll have will be the fifteen hundred 
the Asphalt Company owes me. Now see. 
Pay my funeral an’ a good wake an’ all the 
bills if y’ can out of little Mike’s bank ac¬ 
count. ’Twill be enough, I think. Thin, 
after the property is sold out, get that fif¬ 
teen hundred an’ go home with the childer 
to ye’re father. ’Twill be a-plinty to keep 
you over there as long as you live, if ye’re 
careful. God knows it’s sorry I am to be 
lavin’ ye so short, but if I’d lived ye’d been 
a rich man’s wife. Ask Coogan—he’ll tell 
ye ’tis true. Somehow, I never thought of 
me dyin’. I was makin’ money, y’ see, and 
I thought 1 couldn’t die, I guess. But prom¬ 
ise me ye’ll get the asphalt money. They’ll 
pay ye; they brought me here—thim an’ me 


8 o 


Stories from McClure’s 


own foolishness, so they’ll pay ye. ’Twas 
for— Do ye promise? Fifteen hundred 
they own me, Nora acushla—for damages. 
Promise me. God knows I’ll die easier 
knowin’.” 

And Nora, seeing through her tears noth¬ 
ing but the dying eyes of the man who stood 
for her all in life; hearing nothing but his 
ever-weakening voice; knowing nothing ex¬ 
cept that she thought her heart was break¬ 
ing, stretched out her arms and promised. 

The wake and funeral had been befitting 
the dead man’s station. The priest had 
spoken very comfortingly of his integrity 
and virtues; six pall-bearers from the coun¬ 
cils, two lodges, and fully one-quarter of the 
“ Hill’s ” adult population attended the ob¬ 
sequies. The hearse carried eight black 
plumes, and there were thirty-five carriages 
in the procession. 

Yet as Nora sat a week later in the 
room where he had died, the room which, 
though no stick of furniture had been 
moved, was still so subtly, so unalterably 
changed, her sorrow, her loneliness, and the 


The Member from the Ninth 


81 


fear of the world weighed down upon her 
like an intangible, invisible dread, frighten¬ 
ing and stifling her. She could not bring 
herself to the realization of her loss. It 
was not credible that Michael—her Michael 
—upright and honest, universally loved and 
honored, was gone—to never again return. 
She could not believe that he might not enter 
alone or with Coogan, any moment, through 
the door at the end of the hall. But grad¬ 
ually the acceptance of his death forced itself 
upon her, and now, brooding, she let the con¬ 
sciousness of her lack of power to bring him 
back sink with all its hopelessness deep into 
her soul. There rose a certain exaltation 
with it as she remembered what he had been, 
and to herself she made a vow. In life she 
had looked up to him and loved him; in death 
she would protect his name—a sacred thing 
hallowed by that love and doubly hallowed 
by its own spotlessness. Her eyes shone 
softly with the glow of her resolve. 

Coogan came—and Nora remembered her 
husband’s last words proudly. He sat down 
upon the chair by the door and cleared his 
throat. 


82 Stories from McClure’s 

“ Ye’ve been kind to me, Coogan, and I’ll 
see ye paid,” she said greeting him. 

“ Paid ? ” replied Coogan, uncomprehend- 
ingly. 

“Ye’re not after ye’re money thin?” 
asked Nora, smiling wanly. “ Niver mind, 
for ye’ll get it.” 

“ Money! Nora! ” cried the boss, upset¬ 
ting the chair and striding across the room. 
“ D’ye think I’ve been watching me money 
this while? D’ye think I’ve been cornin’ 
here because of me money? ” 

Nora looked up at him. A look in his 
eyes frightened her, and his thin, spare fig¬ 
ure seemed to lengthen as he bent forward. 
Instinctively she put up one hand as if to 
ward a coming blow. 

“ It’s you I want,” blazed Coogan. Then 
with a sudden change: “Ah, Nora, dear, 
me heart is gone entirely. Ever since the 
day Mike brought ye here I’ve loved ye. 
Will ye not come? It’s a lone woman ye 
are now, wid two children, and ye’ll all be 
wanting a home soon.” 

Nora rose unsteadily. To her tightly 
strung nerves, worn by all she had suffered, 


The Member from the Ninth 


83 


and breaking rudely upon the sanctity of her 
reveries, the. shock of Coogan’s passion came 
at first like some numbing blow, and made 
her feel as though she were standing face 
to face with an awful, revolting crime. 
For a moment she stood robbed of speech. 
Swift was her recovery. 

“ Dennis Coogan, shame be to ye,” she 
cried, with a white face and beating heart. 
“ Me husband not dead tin days, an’ spakin’ 
of such! I thought ye were me friend. I 
thought ye’re heart was good to me. You 
—lovin’?—ah no, Coogan. Ye mean well 
perhaps. I didn’t mean to speak illy. But 
I loved Mike whin he was alive, and ’tis God 
that knows I can’t stop lovin’ him just be¬ 
cause he’s dead. I’ll always love him, and 
niver will I take another man.” 

Coogan dropped the hand he had raised. 
There was a chill in the words that checked 
even his ardent nature. He did not know 
this sort of love. There broke upon his 
mind a glimmering—like the first few night 
lights of a distant city. “ But he’s dead, 
Nora,” he said, uncomprehendingly. 


8 4 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ Aye,” said Nora, steadfastly, “ but he’s 
my man.” 

“ The house and saloon will go,” said 
Coogan. 

“I have some money cornin’,” replied 
Nora. 

Coogan looked at her sharply. He knew 
about the money. “ Whisht! Ye’ll see the 
time,” he said hopefully. 

A month went by. In that month all of 
Michael’s outstanding accounts were paid in 
full; the saloon was sold under foreclosure 
by the Hawkes Cement Works ; all of Nora’s 
furniture had been bought by a second-hand 
dealer for about one-tenth of what it had 
cost, and little Michael’s bank account was 
balanced to zero. Even the house Nora no 
longer regarded as her own; it was Coogan’s. 
She might have held it, and certainly Coogan 
would never have taken it; but the zeal of a 
fanatic had seized her; Michael’s name was 
to be cleared. Not a dollar should be un¬ 
paid. He had lived honestly; he should rest 
honestly. 

Coogan called again, and Nora delivered 


The Member from the Ninth 


85 


unto him the keys. “ ’Tis yours, Coogan,” 
she said bravely, “ and now Mike’s name is 
clear.” 

“ Take them back and stay here,” said 
the boss, flushing a dark red. “ D’ye think 
me a man or a blood-sucker ? ” 

But Nora brooked no opposition, and in 
the end Coogan stood in the deserted side of 
the house, staring at the keys thrown down 
before him. Through the wall came the 
sound of stifled sobs, for the last parting 
from her home had wrenched the sorrow be¬ 
yond silent bearing, and she had fled with 
both the children to the sympathetic Mrs. 
Monahan. Coogan heard, and the lines in 
his face settled into an interesting grimness 
—the kind of grimness that means a man 
has resolved to get a certain thing or die. 

The flaggings were hard, and the baby was 
heavy, and little Michael dragged at her arm 
laggingly; Nora had not remembered that 
the walk to town was so long. Yet some¬ 
how she had not been able to leave the chil¬ 
dren long enough to come alone. Since 
Michael’s death she could not bear to be 
separated from them; they were all she had 


86 Stories from McClure’s 

left of him. She found, too, that her widow’s 
veil—lent for the occasion by Mrs. Mona 
han’s deceased brother’s wife—blew awk¬ 
wardly at the street corners. Everything 
was very strange and confusing. She shrank 
timidly from the business-like lack of 
sympathy of the elevators; and the huge, 
humming bee-hive of a building which she 
entered made her heart beat with a little fear. 

The contract man emerged from his inner 
sanctuary as the office boy announced her. 
He had been expecting her, but he did not 
say so. Nor did he offer his hand—an omis¬ 
sion of which he had never been guilty in his 
visits to Michael’s home—and Nora sat down 
in the chair to which he sleekly waved her 
feeling vagely hurt at the neglect. Little 
Michael stood shyly at her knee; the baby 
crowed, and reached gladly for the contract 
man’s watch charm, and within the inner 
office a man rose and crept to convenient 
hearing distance. 

“ Misther Dale,” said Nora, after waiting 
for the first word, “ 1 —it’s a nice day.” 

“A charming day, Mrs. Conry,” acqui¬ 
esced the contract man, blandly. 


The Member from the Ninth 87 

Nora took heart at his tone. “ I—I came, 
sir, about the money,” she continued. 

“ Oh,” said the contract man with a rising 
inflection, but with apparent mystification. 

“ The money you’re owin’ Mike,” ex¬ 
plained Nora. “ The fifteen hundred.” 

“ I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said the 
contract man, clearing his throat. “ Did he 
send you here ? ” 

“ Before he died,” replied Nora with a 
little choke, “ he says you owed him, an’ 
fer me to get it. I’m goin’ back to Ireland 
wid it.” 

“But we don’t owe him anything now,” 
said the contract man, slowly. 

Nora’s heart dropped. There was a mis¬ 
take. Mike had never lied to her. But 
there was something dreadful in the con¬ 
tract man’s smooth voice as he went on talk¬ 
ing. 

“ We couldn’t pay it, you see, Mrs. Con- 
ry,” he was saying. “ We’ve too many live 
people to bother with now. Besides, we 
didn’t really need his vote.” 

“ His vote,” cried Nora, sickening with a 
sudden fear. 


88 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ Why, yes/’ said the contract man, 
wearily, “ that’s the fourth vote of his we’ve 
bought. I don’t see why you need money. 
Forty-five hundred from one concern is 
good, isn’t it? That’s better money than 
most of them make.” 

Nora rose, trembling like a leaf. “ Ye 
bought me Mike’s vote, ye say? Ye bought 
it? Oh, Misther Dale, it isn’t thrue, is it? 
Say it isn’t. Oh, say it isn’t! ” The rising 
wail of a breaking heart spoke in her cry. 

The contract man was silent. His little 
eyes looked into hers with a steady, selfish 
cruelty. His sleek face shone with satis¬ 
faction. Nora gasped. “ Thin that money 
—that fifteen hundred dollars.” 

“ Bribe money, madam. Sorry—but a 
man must live, you know, if he wants to 
collect bills like that. If you care for fur¬ 
ther proof than my words, I think I can ac¬ 
commodate you with the testimony of a wit¬ 
ness,” and the contract man, who had feasted 
on the vision of this denouement for a 
month, leaned back in his chair, and waved 
his hand blandly toward the door of the inner 
office. 


The Member from the Ninth 89 

Then while the room still whirled before 
Nora’s eyes the door swung outward, and 
Coogan stood upon the threshold. His lean 
face and deep-set eyes shone with a malig¬ 
nant fire; yet strangely enough, after one 
swift glance at Nora, he turned the 
anger of his gaze upon the astonished con¬ 
tract man. 

“ Ye blackguard, Dale,” he said slowly, 
“ besides robbin’ a poor woman, ye’d lie her 
man’s character away, wud ye? ’Twas 
straight money, and you know it. Small 
thanks to you that Mike Conry was as hon¬ 
est a man as ever was! Say again that ye 
bribed him if ye dare! ” 

The contract man gasped, and tried to 
grasp things. There seemed to be some¬ 
thing wrong with his carefully arranged 
■finale. Coogan had been cast as the cat’s 
paw in the melodrama—not as the hero. 
The subtle Ulysses who was to save the Ton- 
sor Company $1,500 was to have played that 
part. There was some mistake. Then, as 
the enormity of the insult swept away all 
other considerations, his gorge rose mightily, 
and his self-control and craftiness slipped 


9° 


Stories from McClure’s 


away like running water. Nora shrank 
back into the recess of the window as he rose 
to his feet, for there was so cold, so Satanic 
a look of concentrated hate in his eyes that 
her heart grew faint. Coogan eyed him as 
a cat eyes a mouse. 

“ In the first place,” he said slowly, his 
voice shaking with passion, “ you had bet¬ 
ter wash your own hands; what did you 
come here for this afternoon? In the sec¬ 
ond place—get out of this office and stay out! 
In the third, though it is absolutely none of 
your business, I’m not in the least afraid of 
you, and I repeat that I bribed Conry to vote 
our way!” 

“ For all that ye wrote your manager that 
Mike Conry was honest and that you’d have 
to buy some one else ? Read that! ” 

And the contract man stared stupidly at 
the letter which Coogan thrust into his hands. 
It was a queerly folded, legal-looking letter, 
and began oddly with the words “ State of 
Pennsylvania, County of Luzawanna, ss.: ” 
after which, in language more or less tech¬ 
nical, it set forth a certain statute of 31st 
March, i860, and an averment that one 


The Member from the Ninth 91 

Arthur L. Dale had been guilty of offending 
against said statute; that he had bribed 
and unduly influenced one Michael Conry, 
councilman, and that the peace and dignity of 
the Commonwealth had been thereby of¬ 
fended. 

“ I have just been to the District Attor¬ 
ney’s office,” said Coogan, softly. “ He 
thinks that wid the help of the witnesses 
prisent ye will get a year, at least. He drew 
th’ indictment himself.” 

For a moment the two men looked each 
other fairly in the face. Nora uncompre- 
hendingly stared from one to the other. 
Then the contract man, reading in Coogan’s 
eyes the hopelessness of the struggle, half 
surrendered. “ You’ll go with me if I do,” 
he said, weakly. 

“ I will—gladly,” said Coogan, “ wid the 
hope, however, that itTl be solitary confine¬ 
ment.” 

“ I—I had forgotten that letter,” the con¬ 
tract man said, lamely, hauling down his 
colors. 

“ I thought ye had,” answered Coogan 
grimly. “And now, as soon as ye have 


92 


Stories from McClure’s 


apologized to Mrs. Conry for insultin’ her 
man, and as soon as ye have written that 
check, we’ll be acceptin’ of your kind invi¬ 
tation to leave.” 

On the street he turned to Nora. “ The 
lyin’, smooth-face rogue! ” he cried angrily. 

And Nora, whose idol had tottered and in 
the nick of time been thrust back on the shelf 
in safety, merely said, with a shining face, 
“ Oh, Coogan!” 

A week later a steamer sailing for Queens¬ 
town churned panting out of New York har¬ 
bor. A tall, thin man stood on the dock un¬ 
til it vanished in the network of shipping on 
the river. His face was a little drawn, and 
his lips pressed tightly together, as he 
watched the yellow tops of the steamer’s 
stacks blur in the haze of low-hanging 
smoke. Then he walked away. 

Coogan was going back to the Ninth to 
rule undisputed, to wax fat and influential, 
and to gather much rich plunder, but—he 
was going alone. 


Deepwater Politics 























DEEPWATER POLITICS 

By May McHenry 

O NE day last January, when the air 
had a nip to it, Old Man John Bar¬ 
ton leaned over his barn-yard gate 
and whistled “ Maid of Dundee ” 
softly in a minor key, as his nephew, Bob 
Barton, came along. 

Bob was on horseback, with a freckle¬ 
nosed child and a basketful of eggs balanced 
in front. He urged his horse close to 
the fence, that he might lean down and ad¬ 
dress his uncle in the confidentially lowered 
tone befitting the subject of politics. 

“ Say, Uncle John, have you heard the 
news? The Hillers are putting up Old 
Sammie McNab to run for supervisor 
against John Penny.” 

The Old Man took off his cap and his 
mitten, and ran his fingers reflectively 
through his thick mane of fine white hair. 

95 


9 6 


Stories from McClure’s 


“So? Well, let Old Sammie run, Bob. 
Running for office is one of the inalienable 
rights of the American citizen.” 

“ The McNabs are workers. Young 
Sam is a tiger,” Bob went on. “ The fact 
that John Penny has had the office four 
terms running gives them something to 
work on. We ought to have our best man 
at the front if we want to beat Old Sammie 
McNab. It won’t do to let the Hillers get 
ahead of us here. The Valley pays the lion’s 
share of the taxes, and we have a right to a 
supervisor who will look after our interests. 
Maybe Old Sammie would open those 
ditches along the road through your mead¬ 
ows and mine, and maybe he wouldn’t.” 

“ Don’t worry over Old Sammie and those 
ditches, Bob; we’re going to keep the su- 
pervisorship right where it is,” the Old Man 
announced with decision. “ John Penny is 
all right. He can run on his record, and 
that’s more than all officeseekers can do. 
He is out and out the best supervisor we’ve 
ever had. When Judge Brewster was up 
here last summer he told me he believed 
our road master had not an equal in the 


Deepwater Politics 


97 


State. You tell the boys that! When we 
have material of that sort, it is our duty to 
show appreciation by keeping it where it 
will do the most good. Tell them that. 
Moderation is a good thing even in holding 
office, but the right man in the right place is 
better. Tell them that. We must avoid 
any friction in our ranks, with the caucus 
only two weeks off. John Penny Barton is 
the man, and Harmony is the word, Bob— 
Harmony.” 

Old Man Barton chuckled as Bob rode 
on. “ So Robert has been hearing the bee 
buzz himself! He hardly knows a road- 
scraper from a spring-tooth harrow! But 
fire and tow! I wonder what Dolly and 
Sam will think of it.” 

During the next few days all Deepwater 
was agitated with that question: what would 
Dolly and Sam think of it ? 

Dolly was the only unmarried daughter 
of John Penny Barton, and Sam was the 
sole male offspring of the house of McNab. 
Everybody knew that Dolly had her quilts 
pieced, her rag carpet at the weaver’s, and 
her wedding clothes made, ready to marry 


9 8 


Stories from McClure’s 


Sam; and everybody knew that Sam had 
the finest new house on the Hill with the 
last coat of paint drying, ready to give 
Dolly just as comfortable a home as she had 
been used to. 

While all the world wondered, Sam and 
Dolly got together, according to their cus¬ 
tom on Saturday evening, and tried to de¬ 
cide what they really did think of it. 

“ Of course this will make no difference 
between you and me. There is no politics 
with us,” Dolly said. 

“ I’m glad you look at it in that sensible 
way, Dolly,” Sam replied with a breath of 
relief, and a reach of his long arm for her 
tantalizingly evasive person. “ I didn’t 
know just how you might take it, and I— 
well, look, Dolly—the politicians may fight 
it out—but you and I—oh, yes, Dolly! ” 

“ Cousin Bob tells me you are going 
around making speeches for your father, 
but I know that is a mistake,” Dolly re¬ 
marked severely, as she pushed him away. 

“ It is. Speech-making is not in my line. 
Of course I’ll do what I can for the head of 
the family, but I’ll not make many 
speeches.” 


Deepwater Politics 


99 


“ Sam McNab! Do you mean you will 
fight my pa ? ” 

“ Being a Hiller, of course I will fight the 
Valleyites and their candidate for super¬ 
visor. Why, what’s the matter? Didn’t 
you just say that politics makes no differ¬ 
ence with us ? ” 

“ I didn’t say it will make no difference if 
you go around electioneering and working 
against pa. If our parents are running for 
the same office, you and I need not take 
sides. That is what I meant, and you know 
it. Why, Sam, I do not see how you can 
want to take part against any one I care 
for! ” 

“ You are just like the rest of the women, 
after all,” groaned Sam. “ Can’t you see 
that politics is outside of what a fellow 
cares for, and all that? It is a question of 
principles of government and—and citizen¬ 
ship. At least, that’s the theory. Private 
affairs are not in it. They have nothing to 
do with the case. As a citizen and a voter, 

I have a duty-” 

“ You have a duty to me, and that should 
come first! ” 

So they went on—Sam arguing from one 

L.ofC. 


IOO 


Stories from McClure’s 


point of view, Dolly arguing from another 
—until finally the young man slammed the 
front door angrily, and went off with a 
little pearl ring weighing like lead in his 
vest pocket, and a heart much heavier in 
his bosom. 

Dolly, bright-eyed and white-lipped, 
swept tempestuously into the kitchen where 
Old Man Barton was talking ways and 
means with John Penny. 

“ Uncle John, we must beat those Hillers. 
1 will cry my eyes out if we don’t! ” she 
exclaimed. 

“ Fire and tow! the child looks half- 
minded to cry her eyes out right now,” 
commented the Old Man. 

During the two weeks preceding the cau¬ 
cus, feeling between Hill and Valley ran 
high. Every man, woman, and child in the 
township, not to mention kinsfolks outside, 
took sides in the supervisorship fight. Par¬ 
son Minter postponed his “ protracted 
meeting ” in the wise conviction that after 
the township election the people would have 
more time and inclination to think of their 
souls. 


Deepwater Politics 


IOI 


Caucuses are usually held in the village of 
Sweet Valley in the “ ware-room ” of Eben 
Barton’s store, which also serves as a poll¬ 
ing place on election days. When Deep- 
waterites of the majority—the hopeless mi¬ 
nority seldom puts forward any candidates 
—met to decide whether John Penny Bar¬ 
ton or Samuel McNab, Senior, should be 
the candidate for supervisor, also inciden¬ 
tally to nominate a constable, squire, and 
school-director, Eben’s store and the porch 
and the road in front were like a crowded 
corner in the vicinity of the prize pigs at 
the county fair. 

Voters and pillars of the government 
stamped around, slapping each other on the 
back and exchanging plug tobacco, while 
they discussed the drains through the Bar¬ 
ton place, and argued and prophesied ex¬ 
pansively as to the certain success of their 
respective candidates. 

At the outset the Valleyites scored a 
point, though their opponents did not real¬ 
ize it at the time. 

As standing chairman of all public meet¬ 
ings, Old Man John Barton stood at the top 




102 


Stories from McClure’s 


of the store steps and announced the hour 
for beginning business. 

“ And now, gentlemen,” he went on in 
his pleasantly oratorical style, “ since for 
some years it has been customary for our 
obliging merchant, Eben, to serve as clerk 
and watcher at our caucuses, doubtless you 
will all be willing to trust to his probity and 
fairness again. Howsomever, since Eben 
happens to be akin to one whose name is on 
the blackboard for our consideration, it will, 
I believe, be more fitting and—ah!—parlia¬ 
mentary to give him an associate. If the 
action meets approval, I will appoint Samuel 
McNab, Junior, as that associate.” 

The Hillers received the appointment 
with acclaim, and though the young man 
objected strenuously, he was pushed into 
the ware-room and seated beside Eben at 
the table, where Eben’s new derby hat 
served to receive the slips of paper contain¬ 
ing the vote of each faithful and zealous 
worker for the party. 

Then Bob Barton took Dan Edgar by the 
arm, and they went behind the store, where 
they could permit their faces to expand and 
wreath with silent mirth. 


Deepwater Politics 


103 


“ That licks ’em! ” gurgled Bob with a 
few fancy steps of triumph. “ There is 
their best worker coralled—shut up for the 
afternoon as harmless as a blind kitten. 
Old Samuel and the rest do the talking, but 
Young Sam knows how to get in the votes: 
he was dangerous. Tell you, the Old Man 
is slick! ” 

That was an afternoon of excitement. 
Probably the liveliest and the most mo¬ 
mentous incident was the “ licking ” of big 
Thad Prentiss by Johnnie Barton Smith. 

Deepwater does not claim Thad Prentiss. 
He is a bully from a neighboring township, 
and on account of his size and his reputation 
as a fire-eater, most people are afraid of 
him, and he knows it. Chance brought him 
to Sweet Valley on the afternoon of the 
caucus, and his natural disposition, together 
with the raw whiskey he had swallowed at 
Zeke Cole’s tavern on the way down the 
creek, led him to make a general nuisance 
of himself. He whooped around Eben’s 
store like an Indian on the war-path, and 
offered to fight every man in the crowd, 
either singly or en masse . Being denied 
admittance to the sacred precincts of the 


104 Stories from McClure’s 

ware-room, where the business of the cau¬ 
cus was being carried on, he became ugly, 
and after trying to kick in a panel of the 
door, rammed his fist through a window. 
The good-natured Deepwaterites laughed 
at the blatant bully and humored him and 
endeavored to reason with him. 

Finally Thad made the mistake of turn¬ 
ing the stream of his profane abuse from 
Deepwaterites in general upon Old Man 
Barton in particular. In an instant Bob and 
two or three others of the younger Bartons 
were on their feet taking off their coats, but 
the Old Man’s grandson, Johnnie Barton 
Smith, was quickest. Before anybody real¬ 
ized what was happening, the youngster 
had slapped the bully twice across the mouth 
resoundingly. 

A few seconds later the two were facing 
each other in the slush and mud of the road 
with a circle forming about them. There 
was a suggestion of David and Goliath: 
Thad was big and broad and red, with a 
neck like a Durham bull, and Johnnie was 
slim and white and pink like a girl. But 
Johnnie’s lithe, lean young body was swift 


Deepwater Politics 


105 

and strong as a steel trap, and during a 
year and a half at college he had acquired 
some science from a good boxing master 
down-town. “ This is my funeral,” Johnnie 
told Bob Barton, and after that no one in¬ 
terfered. Despite the three churches, the 
new graded school-house, and the Woman’s 
Civic Club, Deepwater enjoys a fight as a 
cat enjoys cream. 

In the remote and peaceful ware-room 
young Sam McNab was startled to feel Old 
Man John Barton’s hand on his shoulder. 

“ Just jump up on the table, Sammie, 
where you can look out of the window, and 
tell me what is going on in the road,” the 
Old Man said briskly. “ Johnnie will try 
to give Thad Prentiss a justly deserved 
punishment. Maybe he can do it and may¬ 
be he can’t. If I should see Johnnie fight¬ 
ing, I might feel obliged to go out and stop 
it. What are they doing now, Sammie? It 
isn’t always best to interfere. He’s keeping 
out of reach, is he? Thank you, Sammie! 
That’s his plan, to keep on the defensive till 
he gets the big slunge out of wind. Is 
Thad trying to wrestle him ? That’s unfair! 


106 Stories from McClure’s 

Might as well be in the hug of a grizzly 
bear. If the boys don’t see that Johnnie has 
fair play, I’ll go out there myself. Johnnie 
t hr owed him! Throwed him over his shoul¬ 
ders by getting his head between his legs? 
Boys, I taught the lad that holt myself! 
Now, careful, careful, Johnnie! ” 

The Old Man resolutely kept his back to 
the window while Sam and Eben, prancing 
about excitedly on the table, reported to him 
the progress of the fight. The ink bottle 
and the derby hat ballot-box were both up¬ 
set before they announced the final over¬ 
throw and crying for quarter of big Thad 
Prentiss. 

The afternoon ended without further un¬ 
pleasantness. After the fight the air seemed 
clearer, and public satisfaction in the hu¬ 
miliation of the bully restored general good 
humor, though the Hillers regretted it later. 
Chaffing and joking took the place of argu¬ 
ments that threatened to become bitter, and 
when Old Man Barton announced the re¬ 
sult—that John Penny Barton had been 
nominated by four votes—and made a little 
speech about the white dove of peace and 
about harmony and neighborly good feeling, 


Deepwater Politics 


107 


and the duty and desirability of upholding 
the caucus nominee, Hill and Valley alike 
cheered the Old Man. 

Then young Sam McNab stepped out and 
announced that, notwithstanding the white 
dove of peace and the caucus nominee, 
Samuel McNab, Senior, would run for su¬ 
pervisor of public roads on an independent 
ticket, and both sides cheered again lustily. 

As Old Man John Barton limped rheu- 
matically homeward through the early dusk 
of January, Johnny Barton Smith, who had 
been scraping off mud and applying rotten 
apple to his bruised countenance, stepped out 
of the blacksmith’s shop and linked his arm 
in that of the Old Man. 

“ Grandfather, that was a rattling speech 
of yours in the interest of peace. It thrilled 
me until chills chased up and down my 
spine.” 

The Old Man eyed the young reprobate 
critically in the dusk. “ Young man, your 
eye looks like a freshly blackened stove-lid. 
Instead of levity, it behooves you to be 
studying out what in Sam Hill we are going 
to say to your mother.” 

For once interest now centered upon the 


io 8 Stories from McClure’s 

election, and political fervor continued at 
white heat after the caucus had named the 
candidates. The ninety-seven members of 
the minority enjoyed sudden and novel im¬ 
portance; they became factors in the fight. 
The Hillers carried on the campaign with 
remarkable vigor. Day and night young 
Sam McNab’s big bay horse was to be seen 
on the roads, as that energetic young politi¬ 
cian drove with his father over the town¬ 
ship, visiting every voter impartially. 

John Penny himself shook his head over 
such pernicious activity. “ Looks a little 
dubious,” he admitted; but Old Man John 
smiled blandly. 

In all the driving to and fro, Sam’s sleigh 
and big bay horse never once turned into 
the lane that led to John Penny’s. Dolly, 
running up to the garret window, where she 
could look out over the bare apple-tree tops 
to the hill road, would go down-stairs 
again, with a red spot on each cheek. She 
would go about her work singing in such a 
high, sweet voice that the neighbors, hear¬ 
ing her, wagged their heads and their 
tongues. “ Dolly isn’t breaking her heart, 


Deepwater Politics 


109 


anyway,” they said. But Dolly's mother 
watched her daughter out of the corner of 
her eye anxiously. 

One clear, cold day about two weeks after 
the caucus, young Sam McNab was stand¬ 
ing moodily in front of the blacksmith’s 
shop in Sweet Valley, when Old Man John 
Barton, driving past in his sleigh, stopped 
and beckoned. Sam crossed the road slowly. 
He was in no humor for conversation with 
any one, and felt a dread of being called to 
order by the Old Man. 

He was greeted with affectionate geni¬ 
ality. 

“ Sammie, seems to me the bolt that holds 
the shaft on this side is loose,” the Old Man 
said. “ I wish you would be so good as to 
look at it for me. I am pretty stiff these 
cold days, to be climbing in and out of the 
sleigh.” 

As Sam stooped in front of the dash¬ 
board, the Old Man leaned forward and 
spoke, close to his ear, in a hoarse whisper: 

“ Dolly is going out to Dakota to her 
Uncle Cotner. Starts to-morrow morning. 
Her trunk was sent down to the Flowerville 


IIO 


Stories from McClure’s 


station this afternoon. Made up her mind 
all of a sudden, and none of us can stop her. 
Dakota is a long way off. No use of her 
going way out there; Philadelphia or Wash¬ 
ington, D. C., would do better—for a wed¬ 
ding trip.” 

Sam stood up suddenly, with his face 
much redder than his labors over the bolt 
warranted. The Old Man was looking 
steadily at the weather-vane on Squire 
Yorkes’s barn. 

“ I shall not be surprised if we have more 
snow when the weather moderates. There 
are indications,” he observed casually. 
“ The bolt is all right, is it, Sammie ? I am 
obliged to you, sir. Your Grandmother 
Edgar was my first sweetheart, Sammie— 
as fine a woman as ever trod God’s foot¬ 
stool! You favor her somewhat, upon my 
word you do! Good-by, my boy, good-by.” 

Shortly after dusk that evening young 
Sam, driving rapidly down the creek road, 
met John Penny and his wife headed to¬ 
ward the village. The young man chuckled 
as he passed their sleigh. He unbuttoned 
his overcoat with one hand, that he might 


Deepwater Politics 


in 


finger a neatly folded paper in his vest 
pocket. Since that far-off, happy time be¬ 
fore his father entered upon the trouble¬ 
some paths of politics, he had carried that 
marriage license in the same pocket with 
Dolly’s rejected ring; now he intended to 
put them both into use. 

The square white house in the lane looked 
dark and forbidding. There was no response 
to Sam’s eager knock. Deepwaterites sel¬ 
dom lock their front doors, and the young 
man walked boldly into the dimly lighted 
hall, that had not been graced by his pres¬ 
ence for nearly a month. 

“ Dolly! Dolly! ” he called imperiously. 

There was no answer, no light form rus¬ 
tling to greet him. Perhaps the Old Man 
was mistaken, perhaps she had already 
gone. Overcome by a sudden sense of the 
emptiness of the house, of the village, of 
the universe, without Dolly, Sam bowed his 
head against the wall and groaned aloud. 

“ Dolly, I’ll follow you to China!” he 
cried in his longing. 

“ Not China; Dakota,” Dolly prompted 
on the stairs, half-laughing, half-crying, 


I 12 


Stories from McClure’s 


and clinging to the balustrade, because she 
could not keep from trembling so foolishly. 

Sam bounded up two steps at a time to 
meet her, and—well, there was no politics 
between them then. 

When Mr. and Mrs. John Penny re¬ 
turned from town, no loving daughter an¬ 
swered their call. Spread out in front of 
the lamp on the sitting-room table, they 
found this remarkably explicit letter: 


“ Dear Father and Mother : 

“ I have gone off to get married. I did not 
really want to go to Dakota, anyway. Now that 
we’ve made up, Sam does not want to wait for 
fear we quarrel again. We are going to Phila¬ 
delphia and Washington, the same as we planned 
at first. Isn’t it lucky that all my wedding clothes 
are in my trunk at the station? I hate to go 
without saying good-by to you, but Sam is afraid 
Elder Minter may go to bed before we get there. 
You will not be very mad, will you, please? 

“ Your affectionate and dutiful daughter, 

“ Dolly.” 

Across the bottom of the sheet was 
scrawled in a large, masculine hand: 

“ It’s all right, father-in-law. We will 



Deepwater Politics 


IJ 3 

have the supervisorship in the family at any 
rate” 

Mr. and Mrs. John Penny were not 
“ very mad.” The mother cried a little and 
laughed a little. 

“ I do hope she put on her arctics, and 
took my double blanket shawl. It is so bit¬ 
ter cold,” she said. 

“ I reckon they’ll not mind the cold,” 
John Penny observed. “ Did you put the 
cat in the cellar, Almira ? ” 

Ten days later Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Mc- 
Nab, Junior, returned from their wedding 
trip, and rode up from the Flowerville sta¬ 
tion in the Sweet Valley stage. Ben 
Lemon, the stage-driver, greeted them 
hilariously. “ Hello, Supervisor! ” he 
shouted, slapping Sam staggeringly on the 
back. Sam, being engaged in tucking the 
robes about Dolly in the sled, paid little at¬ 
tention to the form of salutation. 

A mile or so outside of the town, two 
Deepwater men passed the stage in a sleigh, 
lifting their hats to the bride, and calling 
back something about “ election ” and 
“ clean sweep.” 


114 Stories from McClure’s 

“ As I’m a sinner, yesterday was election 
day! ” exclaimed Sam. “ I forgot it clean 
as a whistle, Dolly; didn’t you ? ” 

But Dolly only laughed, with her cheeks 
like red, red roses. 

“ Say, Ben, how did the election go off ? ” 
Sam called to the driver. 

They were starting up the Hill, so Ben 
twisted the lines about the whipstock, and 
turned to face his two passengers. 

“ Well,” he drawled, “ Ike Bender was 
elected squire, Dave McElroy school-di¬ 
rector, Dan Hess-” 

“Yes, yes, of course! But how about 
supervisor ? ” 

“ Well, you folks are getting back just in 
time for the big celebration the Bartons are 
getting ready for at the Old Man’s.” 

“ Then my pa was elected! ” exclaimed 
Dolly. 

“ No-ope, not John Penny; he’s going to 
take a rest from supervisoring, and let the 
Hill have a chance to show itself.” 

“ Then my pa was elected! ” laughed 
Sam, squeezing Dolly’s hand until she 
shrieked softly. 




Deepwater Politics 


“5 


“ No-ope, not your pop either.” 

“ Then who in thunder ? Excuse me, 
Dolly!” 

The old stage-driver smacked his lips 
with enjoyment. 

“ Well, you see, there was dissatisfaction 
about John Penny havin’ the office agin, and 
they did say it was through the excitement 
of little Johnnie’s fight that he got the nomi¬ 
nation, so both sides, Hillers and Valley- 
ites, got together, and seein’ the Bartons 
wouldn’t come over to the other candidate, 
they all agreed to consolidate, as Old Man 
Barton called it, on a new man, and, gosh 
all, if he wasn’t elected unanimous—yes, 
siree, u-nanimous. Eh? Who? Well, his 
name is S. McNab, Junior, known as young 
Sam—son of one retired candidate and 
son-in-law of t’other. Gee up there, Fan! ” 


Cavalleria Rusticana 



CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA 

A NEBRASKA STORY 

By George Beardsley 

U TT T HY certainly I’ll dubate with 
\j\ I him of course why not, do 
▼ j you see i Why looky here 
blank blankit if he wants to 
dubate with me why in blank blank 
shouldn’t I give him the chance, do you 
see i ” 

The speaker was Bobbie Grant, Populist 
candidate for the Legislature. He spoke 
very fast, in the high-keyed voice common 
to a class of rural Nebraskans, without 
punctuation until the end, where he turned 
the interrogation point upside down after 
his inevitable “ do you see <i” 

“ That’s all right, Bob,” said Smith, the 
Fusionist county chairman, a little one-eyed 
old Mormon, with a quaver in G, and a 
119 


120 


Stories from McClure’s 


stout cane. “ I admire your nerve, Bobbie, 
and all that; but Port Ricker’s a lawyer, 
you want to remember, and a skilled de¬ 
bater; and, on top of that, he’s unscrupu¬ 
lous, as everybody knows.” 

“ ’Aw, skillt your left eye-winker! And 
as for unscroopolous what the divvel has 
that got to do with it when I’ve got the 
right on my side, do you see l ”-—the farmer 
smote the air—“ and most of the brains and 
the substance and the hard work of Ne¬ 
braska at me back, do you see £ Never you 
worry, old man, I reckon I’ll have to do 
more or less of the give and take kind o’ 
spoutin’ up at Lincoln when I’m elected, and 
it’s as well if I get some practice this side 
the Roobicon, which is the North Platte, do 
you see £ ” 

“ But you’re as good as elected now, 
Bobbie, my man. You’ve everything to lose 
and nothing to gain.” 

“ Well blank blankit I don’t stand on 
that for a minute, blank blanked if I do. If 
our side’s right, blank blankit, it’ll win, spite 
o’ dubates, grasshoppers, the divvel and the 
long drouth itself, do you see £ And what's 
more ”—the candidate riveted the watery 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


I 2 I 


glance of the politician with his own honest 
eyes—“ and what's more, me friend, Bobbie 
the Populist, blank blankit, is not the man 
to be afeared to stand up for what he repre¬ 
sents, do you seei Why of course, yes 
indeed, I’ll meet him, and so help me 
Bryan I’ll not make any mistake, do you 
see<i ” 

The emphatic Scotchman's primitive 
trust in the strength of his cause had con¬ 
vinced more pertinacious minds than that of 
the county chairman. 

“ Well, well—as you will, Bobbie,” said 
that official. “ It's yourself that’s running, 
to be sure; and, if you choose to accept the 
challenge, why, I say go in and wipe up the 
Platte Valley with him. How’s your folks, 
now, Bob ? ” 

The reply came in an altered, lower tone, 
with a note of anxiety. 

“ Only toler’ble, no more’n toler’ble, I 
might say, Joe, thank you. As you know, 
the woman’s ailin’ consider’ble this fall— 
rheumatiz and such; and here lately it’s 
’fected her lungs. It was her account, as 
you know, I missed the meetin’ at the Crick 
last week.” 


122 


Stories front McClure’s 


“ Well, don’t worry on that score; our 
fences are all right out that way.” 

The husband paid no attention to the po¬ 
litical remark. 

“ She ought to have let up on the work 
long ’go,” he said, “ but my g-goodness, 
she’s that sot she just couldn’t stop workin’. 
But good-day to you, Joe. You can ar¬ 
range the deetails of that dubate—any way 
suits me only say, put it the last day ’fore 
election—grand climax, you know; make it 
a sort o’ picnic for the folks—they mostly 
need it, workin’ as they are night and day 
with the corn and the stock, do you seei ” 

The candidate hurried off before the 
manager had time to object to this most 
dangerous of all dates for what he consid¬ 
ered a dangerous joint debate. But he re¬ 
flected that all his efforts to make the farmer 
candidate see the wisdom of tactical politics 
had been breath wasted, and so he went 
forthwith and accepted the challenge offi¬ 
cially. 

You may be sure the challenger made 
no objection to the date so innocently sug¬ 
gested by his adversary. The debate was 
fixed for the very last afternoon before the 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


123 


election, at Platteville, and out of doors if 
the weather should permit. Ricker, the 
lawyer candidate, hugged himself with sur¬ 
prised delight when he learned that his 
loaded gauntlet was taken up so unsuspect¬ 
ingly. “ Why, I’ll make such a monkey of 
Bob,” he chuckled at headquarters, “ there 
won’t be a jack-rabbit in the county but will 
be ashamed to vote for him next day.” 

All the particulars were arranged, and 
Platteville and the country round billed ac¬ 
cordingly. Half-sheet posters in gorgeous 
red and green types announced: 


UNPRECEDENTED POLITICAL FORENSICS! 
POPULIST-REPUBLICAN JOINT-DEBATE. 


Hon. PORTER RICKER 


Hon. ROBERT GRANT, 

Opposing Candidates for the Legislature, 
AT 


PLATTEVILLE (COTTONWOOD GROVE), 
Monday Before Election, 2 r. m. 

Special Rates on the U. P. 

BRING YOUR DINNERS AND YOUR LADIES, 
AND 

HEAR BOTH SIDES! 

Come One! Come All! 




124 Stories from McClure’s 

Then the campaign waxed warm. Ricker, 
the lawyer, spoke twice a day—afternoon 
meetings at outlying crossroads (your 
simon-pure farmer will not come to an eve¬ 
ning meeting, as every political manager 
knows)—evenings in the towns. The pros¬ 
pect of a tongue-to-tongue set-to with his 
inexperienced antagonist at the critical mo¬ 
ment put him in fine fettle. He went about 
with the air of confidence and good cheer 
of a man who expects to win. Sometimes, 
when his audience was one-sidedly cordial 
to his speech, he would throw out little dar¬ 
ing prognostications of how he would carry 
the enemy’s works by storm on the next to 
the last day. “ Come and see the fun! ” he 
shouted, and the good-natured rustics 
grinned and cheered and led him on. If 
his spirits were extremely high, perhaps he 
would throw reserve to the winds and troll 
out jauntily— 

Went to the animal fair, 

All the Pops were there; 

and he and everybody laughed boisterously 
over the conjured scene of Bobbie’s rhetor¬ 
ical discomfiting, and the expose of his Ar- 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


I2 5 


cadian unfitness for the office of legislator 
to the mighty interests of Nebraska. 

Bobbie, meanwhile, pursued the even 
tenor of his own campaign. As the weeks 
sped and the days before the “ big dubate,” 
as he called it, became few, and he heard 
of Ricker’s boasts, he was not disconcerted. 
He was the same emphatic, profane, genial 
Blob. “ Are you shiverin’, Bob ? ” a mem¬ 
ber of his audience called up to him once. 
“ Pshaw! don’t be silly,” said Grant; “ why 
in—” he checked himself—“ why should a 
fellow shiver ? There’s nought but one side 
to this thing, as it happens, and that’s the 
side we happen to stand on, do you see£ ” 
He had trained himself to leave off the 
blankity-blanks in his public speeches; but 
the “ do you see ” if he was momentarily 
off his guard, stuck, and, I think, lost him no 
votes. He, like Ricker, as epilogue to his 
speech these last days and nights, invited his 
hearers to come to the “ big dubate,” but he 
never permitted himself to be drawn into 
any boast that he would have the advantage. 
Some one asked from the crowd: “ What 
you goin’ do to him, Bobbie?” and the 
hirsute Bobbie looked bland and replied, 


126 


Stories from McClure’s 


“Why, haven’t you heard? it’s a joint du- 
bate—stand up and knock down argufying, 
half-hour rounds, do you see £—come, and 
bring the women and the babies! ” And the 
women agreed that Bobbie Grant did have 
a “ way with him.” 

But these final days, those close to Grant 
when the meetings adjourned marked the 
disappearance of the confident look, and the 
coming in its place of a worried expression 
and a glance less stout-hearted. “ How is 
the woman to-day, Bob ? ” they would ask 
sympathetically, and the big fellow an¬ 
swered only by a slow, solemn shake of the 
head. 

“ First time I ever seen Bob when he 
wasn’t cock-sure, dead certain, and blank- 
ity-blank blank about a thing, do you seei ” 
said Somerville, the wag, aside. 

The afternoon of Monday, the fifth, the 
day before election, was crystalline. The 
November sun seeped through the rifts of 
the cottonwood trees, warming the air to a 
sparkling tonic, so that it was like a per¬ 
fectly mellowed wine. The farmers and 
small merchants and their families assem¬ 
bled in holiday spirits. Old men were seen 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


127 


arguing the issue earnestly with their 
brawny sons; wives sought to convince 
other wives; sweethearts in self-conscious 
white shoes bandied the ball of debate, and 
opposition babes cooed and crowed at one 
another over their mothers’ shoulders. 

Two o’clock came, and the meeting was 
not called to order. The minutes slipped by 
and the murmur was passed round that one 
of the speakers was late. At 2:30 the party 
managers and the vice-presidents of the 
meeting, the chairman, and one of the can¬ 
didates climbed the flag-crowned creaking 
platform gingerly. Voices everywhere de¬ 
manded, “ Where is Bobbie Grant?” Som¬ 
erville, the wag, cried, “ Bobbie’s turned up 
missin’,” and there was a laugh. Populist 
faces grew long and those of the opposition 
triumphant. 

“ Backed down! ” hazarded a fellow no¬ 
body knew, evidently from the marches. 
Half-Rome frowned, the other Half-Rome 
cheered at first, and then thought better of 
it and smothered the cheer. The chairman 
of the meeting used his gavel. 

“ So far,” said he, “ Mr. Grant has not 
put in an appearance. He is doubtless de- 


128 


Stories from McClure’s 


tained unavoidably. As for backing down, 
I think I may say that no one who has 
even so much as a bowing acquaintance 
with a single hair of Bobbie Grant’s whis¬ 
kers would dream of hinting at such a 
thing.” 

The entire audience cheered. The chair¬ 
man was the Plattevillepatriarch, beloved of 
all, and was known as a pronounced enemy 
of what he called the Don Quixote school of 
bewhiskered politics.; so that his defense of 
the absent candidate was especially gratify¬ 
ing as a piece of fair play. Ricker, the 
lawyer, who sat on the stage complacently 
twirling his black mustache, cheered with 
the loudest of them. One of his trump cards 
was the admission of his opponent’s solid 
human traits; he was content to argue that 
these alone could not make a statesman. 
His friends now called him to his feet. He 
responded gracefully, beginning by saying 
that he would be the most disappointed man 
on the ground “ if Bobbie didn’t show up.” 
A voice: “ What were you goin’ to do to 
him, Port ? ” “ Oh, nothing much,” came 

the ready answer from the speaker. The 



Cavalleria Rusticana 


129 

crowd applauded, and he added rather im¬ 
portunately : 

“ In fact, I didn’t intend to do a thing to 
him.” 

At this went up a howl of delight, which, 
however, was not general. Bobbie’s friends 
began to drop away from the edges of the 
gathering, then rapidly the meeting passed 
into the hands of the other side. The 
lawyer candidate launched into his set cam¬ 
paign speech. Smith, the Fusionist county 
chairman, tried to interrupt him to say that 
a messenger had been dispatched on horse¬ 
back to Mr. Grant’s house, but the audience 
jeered and yelled, “ Sit down, Smith! ” 

The next thirty minutes were about the 
longest one-half of that multitude had ever 
waited out. Drifting from the crowd, they 
met in knots of eight and ten about the 
grove to discuss in low, serious voices the 
surprising turn affairs had taken. 

“ It will kill him at the polls,” said many. 

“ It will,” others assented, “ unless he ex¬ 
plains mighty handily, mighty soon.” 

“ I bet his woman’s worse,” guessed one 
man. 


130 Stories from McClure’s 

“ I expect; she’s been right poorly here 
lately.” 

Here and there a man speculated that 
perhaps, after all, it was best for Bobbie 
that he had stayed away. “ Port’s a power¬ 
ful sharp ’un.” But the farmer’s backers 
would hear no apology for their favorite; 
they were as sure he would have come off 
with glory if he had met the appointment as 
they were that he was staunch to the last 
and that his absence would be well ac¬ 
counted for. 

At length the messenger was descried re¬ 
turning down the road full gallop. While 
they waited impatiently the countrymen 
made small wagers on the character of 
Bob’s explanation. 

“ Bet a heifer it’s his woman.” The odds 
were four to one that Bob’s “ woman ” had 
had a “ sudden turn.” They gathered about 
the messenger as he rode up, demanding to 
know his news. But this the young man re¬ 
fused to disclose to any but his chief, Chair¬ 
man Smith of the Fusion organization. To 
that little man on the plaform he elbowed 
his way with some difficulty, and there was 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


J 3 i 

a whispered report lasting some seconds. 
The audience fidgeted and coughed through 
the awkward suspense. Ricker had politely 
left off speaking when the courier arrived, 
and he. too, looked around quizzically to 
Smith for the expected explanation. When 
the ex-Mormon arose you could have heard 
a pin drop. Smith was no hand at public 
speaking, and wisely made short shrift of 
the intelligence he had to impart. 

“ The simple fact is, ladies and gentle¬ 
men,” said he, coming forward, “ Mr. 
Grant is staying at home with his wife. 

No, she is not worse—at least, 
he doesn’t say she is worse—but she is 
poorly, very poorly, as we know, and it 
turns out that this is her birthday. Bob 
says he never once thought about the day 
before election being the fifth of November, 
or of course he would not have agreed to 
this date for the debate, much less sug¬ 
gested it himself. He further says that to¬ 
day, with all their talk and thought in con¬ 
nection with the anniversary, he forgot all 
about the debate until the messenger ar¬ 
rived. He says that he has always made it 


i 3 2 


Stories from McClure’s 


a rule to spend this anniversary by his 
wife’s side, and could not think of leaving 
her now, especially as she is very sick. I may 
suggest that it will be hard for us to blame 
him when we consider that he probably feels 
this may be the last time they will celebrate 
his birthday together. Bob sends his apolo¬ 
gies for disappointing the audience, his op¬ 
ponent and the officers of this meeting.” 

An uncertain silence followed the sensa¬ 
tional announcement. The situation was 
unusual, and not what had been expected. 
When at length the stillness was broken, it 
was broken by none other than Ricker, the 
Republican candidate, and what he did was 
to nod his head in decided approval and set 
up a vigorous hand-clapping. The audi¬ 
ence took the cue instantly, and cheer upon 
cheer went up for the devoted Bobbie, mak¬ 
ing an ovation such as few men are ever 
honored with in our matter-of-fact political 
life. Populists forgot they were Populists, 
and Republicans that they were Republi¬ 
cans; all joined together in unfeigned 
homage to the chivalry of the absent 
candidate. 


Cavalleria Rusticana 


1 33 


After the demonstration the meeting 
quickly dissolved. The people appeared 
quite to have transcended political matters. 
Neighbors who had begun the afternoon 
with bandying the thread-worn arguments 
of the campaign now exchanged kindly 
greetings in modulated voices. Pairs of 
sweethearts drove away with subdued 
glances to be by themselves. Good wives 
had tender words and inquiries for good 
wives, and the children nestled sleepily amid 
the straw in the wagons. The “ big 
dubate ” was a thing of the past. The 
teams rattled off along the road, separated 
at the forks, and scattered homeward over 
the prairie. 

The following winter, in the halls of 
legislation at the State Capitol, one of the 
notable figures among the new members 
was a very tall, broad-shouldered, Scotchy 
man with attenuated whiskers, who wore 
a wide black band around his hat. His fel¬ 
low members listened respectfully when he 
addressed the House—which, however, was 
not often—and, when they approached, 


134 


Stories from McClure’s 


spoke to him with awed voices, remember¬ 
ing the story that had gone the rounds in 
the lobby and the committee rooms of the 
member from Vista’s joint-debate. 



A Temperance Campaign 





A TEMPERANCE CAM¬ 
PAIGN 


By G. K. Turner 

J UST before the municipal campaign the 
local papers all printed this pathetic¬ 
ally innocent little item on one and 
the same morning: 

“ The Ward 7 Republican Club held a large 
ind enthusiastic meeting last night, and organ¬ 
ized for the campaign as follows: President, 
G. B. Shaw; Secretary and Treasurer, J. Moody 
Morgan. It was unanimously voted to support 
all regular Republican nominees.” 

This was brought up into the offices by 
no less authority than the President him¬ 
self, accompanied by the Secretary-treas¬ 
urer. 

“ Here’s something for you to put in in 
the morning,” said the President to the po¬ 
litical reporter. “ Say, you ought to been 
i37 


1^8 Stories from McClure’s 

up there. It was a great show. We’re 
goin’ to have a rouser this fall. It’s goin’ 
to be a great year with us, sure. The boys 
are all red-hot; eh, Mood ? ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ You bet they are. Well, say, I won’t 
take any more of your time, but just shove 
that in in the mornin’, will you? We’ll 
keep you posted when we’ve got anything 
more. Ta-ta,” said the President, sailing 
cheerfully out the door. 

“ Well—see you later,” ejaculated the 
Secretary-treasurer, seriously following af¬ 
ter his superior officer, his eyes fixed on the 
floor. 

The President of the Ward 7 Republican 
Club was a short, vivacious, alert young 
man, with a florid taste in neckties and 
trousers, a red-brown derby with a slight 
but unmistakable tendency to rake over his 
left ear, and a personal preference for bright 
yellow shoes. He was rigidly erect, his 
short coat was buttoned tightly around him, 
and his hair conformed to the highest ideals 
of the Ward 7 barber. He had quite the 
grand air with a cigar. He was extremely 


A Temperance Campaign 


*39 

social. In the hearts of his fellow-wards- 
men ,he was ever Birdie Shaw. 

The Secretary-treasurer was a tall, dark, 
deep-eyed man, with glasses—a far, mys¬ 
terious intelligence, expressed to the world 
through a few melancholy monosyllables 
and a sad, innocent smile. His clothes were 
loose and uncertain, and when he smoked a 
cigar, it continually went out. In the Ward 
he was popularly known as “ The Ghost.” 
The two were never apart during a political 
campaign. It was clear to the most super¬ 
ficial that here was an ideal union of the 
man of thought with the man of action. 

Once outside, the President and the Sec¬ 
retary walked seriously together under the 
electric lights. 

“ Well, do they use it ? ” said the latter. 

“ Sure, sure,” said the President, “ they’ll 
use it.” 

Ward 7 was the center of all municipal 
campaigns. The people of the city fondly 
imagined that they settled their own ques¬ 
tions by popular vote, but in the last analy¬ 
sis everything depended on Ward 7. It 
decided nominations and elections; issues 


140 Stories from McClure’ 

and principles and men came before it to be 
passed upon. Now it would be folly for us 
to believe that this grand truth was hidden 
from the wise founders and builders of the 
Ward 7 Republican Club. 

A casual observer might have expressed 
surprise on seeing, on the following even¬ 
ing, the Ward 7 Republican Club in full 
and harmonious session gathered at its 
headquarters. On first sight this head¬ 
quarters would have seemed to be a bed¬ 
room ; in fact, it was a bedroom—the room 
of Birdie Shaw over the Half-Dime Lunch. 
The two chairs of the bedroom set were oc¬ 
cupied by the full membership of the Ward 
7 Republican Club. Unknown to the world 
this unique organization was limited to a 
club who had authorized themselves to 
stimulate, to gather, to have and to hold, 
and finally to divide all contributions, rev¬ 
enues, and accruements of any kind what¬ 
soever which could in any way be made the 
property of this remarkable institution. 

The simplicity and strength of this 
masterful idea, originating in the brain of J. 
Moody Morgan, and now being executed by 


A Temperance Campaign 


141 

Birdie Shaw, will be appreciated by all true 
students of American ward politics. Its 
formal announcement in the papers was the 
first move in the grand campaign which it 
was about to inaugurate. 

The Club was now met for serious dis¬ 
cussion of the effect of this first official act. 
The Secretary-treasurer broke silence. 

“ Did it work ? ” he inquired anxiously. 

“ Sure, sure,” said the President; “ we’ve 
got ’em thinkin’. I had more’n fifty fellers 
speak to me about it. They saw it in the 
newspapers. Oh, that scheme of yours is 
all right. We’ll keep workin’ the papers; 
that’s the thing.” 

“ Not too much, though.” 

“ No, that’s right; just enough. Oh, I’m 
all right with those fellers, I’ll fix ’em. You 
just watch me.” 

The President leaned his chin on the back 
of the chair he was straddling. The su¬ 
preme question was about to be propounded. 

“ Well, then,” said he, “ what is there 
in it this trip ? Got it figured out ? ” 

“ Yep.” 

“ What is it?” 


142 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ Temperance.” 

“Well, how’ll we work it? Same old 
thing? Saloon-keeps’ Association?” 

“ Yes, and something else.” 

“What is it? Have it out.” 

“ Perkins.” 

“ What, old Perk, the meat man ? ” 

“ Yep. Perkins and the Temperance 
Home Defenders outfit. Now I’ll tell you 
how,” said “ The Ghost.” He proceeded to 
elaborate his scheme. 

“ That’s the stuff,” said the President 
ecstatically. “ Perkins is our man. We 
won’t forget the saloon-keeps either; we’ll 
work both ends. But it’ll be mostly Perkins 
and the cold-water cranks. We’ll get them 
first, and we’ll start right off now.” 

Observe, then, Perkins, the rich whole¬ 
sale meat man, and the Temperance Home 
Defenders marked for destruction or 
tribute, with Birdie Shaw starting out 
boldly on their trail, armed with a great 
cigar. 

Mr. Elijah S. Perkins was a force—in 
business, in the home, in church, in temper¬ 
ance. When he believed a thing, he felt 
himself justified in demanding that all the 


A Temperance Campaign 143 

rest of mankind should believe it with him 
or be exterminated. But outside of the 
wholesale meat business, his soul was 
largely confined to the Cause of Temper¬ 
ance. His Neal Dow cold-water fountains 
for man and beast irrigated the whole 
county; he gave munificent prizes for the 
youth of the city to express their solutions of 
the temperance question in essays and de¬ 
claim them to a waiting world. 

It was only by the use of the utmost tact 
and diplomacy that the President of the 
Ward 7 Republican Club was able to pene¬ 
trate to the inmost business lair of this 
great man. When he was at last admitted, 
he was confronted sternly with the bushy 
eyebrows and furrowed front of Elijah S. 
Perkins in business hours. 

“ Morning,” grunted the great Perkins. 

“Howdy do?” said Birdie Shaw cheer¬ 
fully. “ This is Mr. Perkins, ain’t it? Well, 
I’m glad to see yer. My name’s Shaw— 
George B. Shaw. You don’t know me, but 
I know you; I don’t have to tell yer that.” 

“ Well,” said the affable Perkins, “ what 
can I do for you? ” 

“ Well, then, Mr. Perkins, you ain’t no 


144 


Stories from McClure's 


ordinary man; you’ve got things waitin’ for 
you. I know that. I want just five min¬ 
utes to talk temperance to you. It won’t 
take you any longer. You’re a practical 
man, and I want to talk the thing over the 
way practical men talk.” 

Mr. Perkins grunted again. 

“ Now, here,” said Birdie Shaw, laying 
his finger confidentially on his coat collar, 
“ I’m President of the Ward 7 Republican 
Club, and we’ve got the finest little club in 
this city, if I do say so. It ain’t so little 
neither, unless you call a hundred and 
seventy-five husky young fellers little. Say, 
and they’re all workers, too. 

“ Now you know and I know what Ward 
7 is. I tell you this town’ll come pretty near 
goin’ the way Ward 7 goes—and don’t you 
think it won’t. It always has, and you and 
I won’t live to see the time when it won’t. 

“ Well, then,” continued Birdie Shaw, in 
the deepest of confidential tones, “ on the 
quiet, our fellers don’t like the way this 
liquor business ’s been goin’. There’s lots 
of good young fellers that ain’t no better 
for it. You know that.” Elijah S. Per- 


A Temperance Campaign 145 

kins nodded solemnly. “ And I tell you 
they’re gettin’ kind of tired of it—of seem’ 
these liquor dealers lollin’ round with their 
horses and carriages, and they scratchin’ 
hard to pay the rent. Oh, I tell you, Mr. 
Perkins, things are advanced from what 
they used to be. Those fellers can see 
through a pane of glass just as well as you 
and me.” 

“ True, true,” said Elijah S. Perkins. 

“ So they got talkin’ it down in the Club, 
and I says to ’em, ‘ If you mean business 
the man you want to see about this is Elijah 
S. Perkins. He is the temperance move¬ 
ment in this town.’ So they sent me up to 
see you.” 

Again the great Perkins nodded. 

“ And now I’m goin’ back and I’m goin’ 
to tell the fellers that your people’ll stand 
by ’em, and ’ll be glad to have ’em come in 
with you. Is that right? ” 

“ That’s right, my boy,” said Perkins 
heartily. “ The temperance cause is the 
place for young men. You tell ’em I’m 
glad to see our young men gettin’ their eyes 
open.” 


146 Stories from McClure’s 

“ Will they be glad to hear it ? ” said Mr. 
Shaw. “ Well, I guess not ” 

Jumping from his chair, he shook the 
great temperance leader by the hand and 
escaped. The two new friends parted in 
the deepest mutual confidence. 

Emerging from the office of the great 
Perkins, the leader of Ward 7 young men 
started down into the city with a look of 
deep determination on his face. There was 
still work to be done. He was, in fact, 
headed for the Secretary of the Meadville 
Liquor Dealers’ Protective Association. 

Mr. P. Hickey, the Secretary of this high 
moral organization, was a rotund, middle- 
aged gentleman, with a smooth-shaven face, 
embossed with a large and meaty nose. He 
was ornamented with a very heavy gold 
watch chain, and a shirt front displaying a 
small bow tie and a great electric diamond. 
His sleek hair and his expanse of white linen 
gave him an uncanny appearance of cleanli¬ 
ness. 

Birdie Shaw discovered him in the glass- 
lined private office of his saloon. 

“Hello, Hick,” he said, seating himself. 


A Temperance Campaign 


147 

“ Hello, Bird,” growled the fat liquor 
dealer, “ what ails yer now ? ” 

“ Say, Hick, what are you goin’ to do for 
us this fall ? ” returned the visitor. 

“ Do for what?” 

“ The Club down in the Ward, of 
course.” 

“You’re President of it, ain’t yer?” 

“ Yep.” 

“ 1 thought I saw something about it in 
the paper. Well, we’ll treat you all 
right.” 

“ You’d better. The fellers are all friendly 
to you now, and you want to keep ’em that 
way, ’cause you’re goin’ to have the fight 
of your life on your hands this fall. 

“ Say,” said the President, lowering his 
voice to a hoarse whisper, “ there’s temper¬ 
ance money cornin’ into the ward in bunches 
and I know the fellers that’s got it. Oh, 
I’m onto ’em; I know all their little tricks. 
This feller thinks he’s all right, too. He 
comes to me and he says, ‘ We’ve got ’em 
this time, sure thing.’ So I says to meself, 

‘ I’ll just go up and see my old friend Hick 
and put him onto this right ofif now.’ ” 


148 Stories from McClure’s 

Mr. P. Hickey nodded with serious ap¬ 
preciation. 

“ Well, that’s all,” said Mr. Shaw, rising. 
“ But say now, you want to do the right 
thing by our fellers this fall. It won’t do 
you no harm; I’ll tell you that.” 

“ Don’t you worry; we’ll take care of 
’em,” said the liquor man. “ Better have 
something before you go. Here,” he called 
to the bartender, as Birdie Shaw emerged, 
“ you give this man what he wants.” 

For a temperance worker Mr. Shaw 
wanted pretty strong stuff. 

He had scarcely come out on the side¬ 
walk, when he encountered the political 
reporter. 

“ Hello, Shaw,” said the latter, “ what’s 
new to-day ? ” 

“ There’s something cornin’ along,” said 
Birdie hesitatingly, “ but I don’t know as 
it’s just ripe to give out yet.” 

“ Oh, go on, tell us,” said the reporter. 
“ What is it?” 

“ Well, here,” said Bird, finally overcom¬ 
ing his scrupfes. “ I’ll give you a pointer, 
and you can work it out for yourself. This 
is goin’ to be a red-hot campaign for tern- 


A Temperance Campaign 


149 


perance. The Christians are out after the 
saloon-keeps with an ax. After this elec¬ 
tion they say when a man wants a drink, 
he’s got to take a train to get it. That’s 
right, too; you can put that down. 

“ Oh, it’ll be a great fight. And say, 
while you’re at it, you might say that Ward 
7 talked over the temperance question at its 
last meeting. Oh, I’m tellin’ you, it was a 
lively one at that. Some of the fellers are 
sore on the saloon gang, and you can’t tell 
what they’re liable to do. 

“ But don’t give it away where you got 
this. If you do, you won’t get any more 
news from me, I’m tellin’ you that.” 

The “ Morning Standard ” announced 
the approaching temperance warfare at 
length. 

Having launched the temperance cam¬ 
paign, its originators were concerned that it 
should be run on proper lines. There was at 
once great enthusiasm with Elijah S. Per¬ 
kins and his friends, and great anxiety 
among the followers of P. Hickey. The 
city had always gone “ license ” by a very 
small margin. 

The solicitude of the officers of the Ward 


Stories from McClure’s 


1 5° 

7 Club was naturally greatest for making a 
proper impression on Mr. Perkins. With 
this in view, it was decided to inaugu¬ 
rate a new movement. This was noth¬ 
ing less than to run Mr. Perkins for 
Mayor. 

Immediately upon this decision the Ward 
7 Republican Club was to be seen gathered 
at the desk of Elijah S. Perkins—the Presi¬ 
dent boldly gesticulating; the Secretary- 
treasurer dangling his black hat between his 
legs in an uneasy way, and staring inno¬ 
cently into the other corner of the room 
through his spectacles. 

The President had soon come to the point. 
“ Now look here/’ he said, “ I’ll give it to 
you straight, without any foolin’. Our fel¬ 
lers want you for Mayor. Now, you needn’t 
say no; they won’t take it. You’re a popu¬ 
lar man down in our ward, if I do say it to 
your face.” 

“ That’s right,” jerked out the taciturn 
Secretary-treasurer, blinking earnestly 
through his spectacles. 

“ Well, I should say it was right. You 
ought to see ’em warm up to it. * If he’ll 
run,’ they says, ‘ we’ll give ’em a temper- 


A Temperance Campaign 151 

ance law, with a temperance Mayor to run 
it.’ That’s what this town needs; and you 
people won’t get it unless you do run.” 

“ Maybe you’re right,” said Mr. Perkins, 
modestly. 

“ Sure, sure,” said the President, “ and 
you’re the man we want—we’re all agreed 
to that, and we won’t take no for an 
answer.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Mr. Perkins, with his 
best air, “ I will not say no; I will give the 
matter my attention.” 

The Ward 7 Republican Club bowed 
themselves out. 

“ Will he take it ? ” asked the Secretary- 
treasurer. 

“ Will he take it? Well, I should say 
he would,” said the President gleefully. 
“ You couldn’t pry it away from him with 
a crow-bar.” 

On their next trip down street that even¬ 
ing, the two temperance workers did not 
avoid the blazing saloon of P. Hickey. They 
found the Secretary of the liquor dealers in 
the center of the glare, walking slowly 
about with his fat thumbs in the pockets of 
his tight trousers. 


I cj 2 Stories from McClure’s 

“ Come in here,” said the President of 
the Ward 7 Republican Club, jerking his 
head toward the glass-lined office. 

“ Say, Hick,” he said, when they were 
duly caged, “ I’ve got something new and 
novel for you. The cold-water workers 
have got a new candidate in the convention, 
and he’s all right, too. They’ve got out 
old Perkins, the meat man.” 

“ What er you givin’ us ? ” grunted 
Hickey. 

“ Honest, that’s right, every word of it; 
and he’s goin’ to give you fellers the fight 
of your life. There ain’t no limit to the 
money they’re goin’ to put into this thing; 
he’s just crying to spend it. 

“ Now you’ve got that the first of any¬ 
body in this city. Only don’t you say a 
word yet. You just wait and see if what I 
tell you ain’t right.” 

The next morning the President of the 
Ward 7 Club, faithful to his trust, appeared 
again at Mr. Perkins’s office. 

There was still doubt in the great Per¬ 
kins’s mind. 

“ Here,” said Mr. Shaw, finally, “ 1 tell 


A Temperance Campaign 153 

you what I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to get 
your name before the people, and you can 
see for yourself.” 

“ How’ll you do it? ” 

“ Oh, I’ll have to fix the papers a little.” 
“ Fix the papers! Have you got to pay 
the papers to get political stuff in ? ” 

“ Got to fix the papers ? Well, I should 
say you had. The trouble with you temper¬ 
ance people is, you’re too innocent. You 
know what you can do with ’em. Well, you 
just watch me.” 

“ What does it cost ? ” queried Perkins. 
“ Oh, you can get it done for twenty-five 
dollars—a good one, I mean.” 

“ Well, here,” said Perkins, “ you try it.” 
“ All right,” said Mr. Shaw, “ but I kind 
of hate to take this from you. I’d pay it 
out of the treasury of the Club—if I 
thought it was the right thing to do.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” said the magnifi¬ 
cent Perkins. “ When Elijah S. Perkins 
does a thing, it’s done; you’ll find that out 
if you do much business with me” 

Steering straight down street with his 
faithful fellow-officer, Birdie Shaw soon en- 


*54 


Stories from McClure’s 


countered the political reporter and assailed 
him with friendly vigor. 

The reporter accosted him for news. 

“ Now look here,” said Bird, “ I’ll tell 
you what I’ll do. I’ll tell you a piece of 
news that’s right; and nobody else ain’t got 
it but you, and they won’t have it neither— 
not till after you print it. They’re goin’ 
to run old Perkins for the nomination for 
Mayor.” 

“What, Elijah S. Perkins!” gasped the 
reporter. 

“Yes, sir; that’s right. Sure as God 
made the Irish. There’s a strong movement 
for him, and you’ll have that first. I’ll 
guarantee you that. Only give him a kind 
of a good send-off, will you? 

“ And say, you might say the Ward 7 
Club had another big meetin’ last night and 
voted in six new members. Oh, they’re 
red-hot.” 

The political reporter went away and 
wrote an article full of enthusiasm. It was 
a “ scoop.” 

The political reporter’s friendship was 
established for one fall; Perkins was grati- 


A Temperance Campaign 


155 


fied; and the twenty-five dollars remained 
in the treasury of the Ward 7 Club. Thus 
all were pleased. 

There was no doubt that the announce¬ 
ment made a stir. Delight suffused the 
temperance ranks, and much consternation 
the souls of the Liquor Dealers’ Associa¬ 
tion. 

Possibly this event alone would have been 
enough to fix in the breast of that citizen- 
patriot, Elijah S. Perkins, the determination 
to sacrifice himself for his city. However, 
the President of the Ward 7 Club would 
leave no stone unturned. 

He next visited the President of the 
Women’s Temperance Home Defenders, 
Mrs. Jabez O. Pratt. He found her in a 
church vestry at the close of one of the 
Defenders’ afternoon meetings. 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Pratt,” he said “ for 
intrudin’ myself on you. But I knew you 
and I wanted the same thing—we want Eli¬ 
jah S. Perkins for Mayor of this city. 

“ Now, what I want is for you to tell him 
so. You can make him do a good many 
things other people can’t. You want to ex- 


*56 


Stories from McClure’s 


plain to him just how the thing is. We 
temperance people have got to have him to 
win.” 

“ I’ll do it,” said the head of the Defend¬ 
ers, decidedly. 

“ Well, thank you, ma’am,” said Birdie 
Shaw. “ I won’t take any more of your 
time then.” 

The President of the Defenders was a 
tall, unhealthy-looking woman, with a blu¬ 
ish-white complexion. She wore a black 
dress and black cotton gloves, and a little 
flimsy black cape that huddled up about her 
neck. 

“ That’s a smart young man,” she said 
to herself, as Birdie Shaw sailed away. 

Mrs. Pratt started immediately for Mr. 
Perkins. She was an earnest woman— 
one of those strong personalities who take 
a personal pride in speaking their opinion, 
and make fully as much display of moral 
courage in doing it when it happens to be 
good as when it is bad. 

She entered the office of the great Per¬ 
kins with a flourish, and started immedi¬ 
ately on her God-given task of speaking her 
mind. 


A Temperance Campaign 157 

“ I don’t care, Mr. Perkins,” she said, 
“ if you are a big, rich man, and I’m only a 
poor, hard-workin’ woman. I’m just going 
to tell you what I think, and it won’t make 
any difference to me whether you like it or 
not. 

“ You’ve got to run for Mayor of this 
beautiful city; she needs you. You’ve had 
all the expenses of the Cause all these years, 
and now you ought to have some of the 
honors of it, and everybody I’ve talked to 
says the same. The people are aroused this 
fall; they’re going to elect a temperance 
mayor, and you’re going to be the man.” 

Her visit, with that of other devoted and 
unselfish enthusiasts, went far to demon¬ 
strate to Mr. Perkins how widespread was 
the call for him through the city. 

The same evening of these two confer¬ 
ences, the Secretary of the Liquor Deal¬ 
ers’ Association was met by the President of 
the Ward 7 Club. 

“Hello, Hick,” said Bird, “how are you 
to-night ? ” 

“All right. How’s yourself?” 

“ First rate. Well, say, Hick, was I right 
about Perkins, or wasn’t I ? ” 


Stories from McClure’s 


158 

“ Guess you hit it that time.” 

“ You bet your life I did. Well, say, 
have you got it all fixed up what you’re 
goin’ to do for us ? ” 

“ I dunno but what I have.” 

“ Well, you’d better; with all this temper¬ 
ance money floatin’ round I’m havin’ all I 
can do keepin’ the fellers in line this fall— 
and your people not doin’ a thing yet. Say, 
Hick, you’ll have to raise it a little this fall, 
honest.” 

“ A feller was in here last night,” said 
Hickey stolidly, “ who said that Perkins 
business was all a bluff.” 

“ Oh, I dunno about that,” said Birdie 
Shaw. “ The old man might be weaker in 
the convention, and don’t you forget it.” 

“ This feller says,” continued the liquor 
dealer unmoved, “ that the whole show ain’t 
got any chance, and he’d think we’d drop 
the whole thing, and save our money.” 

“ Did you believe him ? ” asked Bird 
scornfully. 

“ I dunno but I did.” 

“ That’s all right,” said the President of 
the Ward 7 Club fiercely, rising with sharp 


A Temperance Campaign 


159 


decision from his chair. “ You just go 
ahead and see what you can do without us.” 

“ Say, here,” said the Secretary of the 
liquor dealers, hurriedly, “ don’t get ex¬ 
cited. I was only givin’ you a little jolly. 
Here’s the usual thing. I’ll give it to you 
now, and maybe I’ll raise you a little later. 
Does that suit you ? ” 

“ That’s all right, Hick,” said the molli¬ 
fied leader of Ward 7 voters; “ I knew 
you’d behave sensible about it before you 
got through. Only you don’t want to be¬ 
lieve what everybody comes along and tells 
you.” 

Now the machine had already selected its 
man for Mayor weeks before, and Elijah S. 
Perkins had about as much chance against 
it as Mrs. Jabez O. Pratt herself. The more 
sane of his friends finally convinced him 
that it would, on the whole, be better to 
withdraw. 

Birdie Shaw was one of the first to ap¬ 
proach him after his decision. There was 
a deep and settled depression on his face. 

“ Our fellers will be mighty sorry to hear 
it, Mr. Perkins,” he said. “ But I’m goin’ 


160 Stories from McClure’s 

to tell ’em the fight ain’t off yet by any 
means. It ain’t no personal matter with 
you. You’re one of these men that’s got 
principles, and there ain’t any too many of 
’em in politics, I’m tellin’ you that. The 
principle of this thing’s the same, and you’re 
goin’ to stick.” 

“ Yes,” said Perkins, feebly. “ The prin¬ 
ciple’s what I’m after.” 

It remained to announce Mr. Perkins’s 
withdrawal to the public. To see that this 
was properly done Mr. Shaw himself went 
to the “ Standard ” office, and imparted the 
news exclusively to his dear friend, the po¬ 
litical reporter. 

It was a rich political year. The brewer¬ 
ies put in to both parties their regular con¬ 
tributions—those great unseen moral forces, 
which always disappear in the report of ex¬ 
penses—divided under the names of a large 
number of friendly politicians, who never 
gave a cent in their lives. The saloons did 
likewise. The Ward 7 Republican Club, 
with touching self-sacrifice, made no at¬ 
tempt to share in the division of this spoil. 
It modestly preferred to keep away from 


A Temperance Campaign 161 

the attention of the general political mana¬ 
gers. 

It was with this self-effacing purpose that 
the chief executive of the Ward 7 Republi¬ 
can Club now sallied forth. In the Secre¬ 
tary of the Liquor Dealers’ Protective Asso¬ 
ciation he found an easy convert. 

“ Just you keep still and say nothin’,” 
said Mr. Shaw, tapping the chest of Mr. 
Hickey with his forefinger. “ It’ll all be 
fixed. You don’t want to get into this fight. 
You ain’t in no position to in your busi¬ 
ness.” 

Incidentally Mr. Shaw wrapped up and 
put into his pocket the additional tribute of 
the liquor dealers. 

The great Elijah S. Perkins he ap¬ 
proached in a different way. 

“ It’s a great temperance fight you’re put¬ 
tin’ up, Mr. Perkins,” said he. “ I tell you 
it makes a difference who’s runnin’ such 
things.” 

“ Well, I generally manage to do what I 
set out to,” said the modest Perkins. 

“ Sure, sure. Everybody’s talkin’ of it. 
It’s great.” 


162 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ The saloon is the curse of this country,” 
continued Mr. Perkins, didactically. 

“ Sure, sure.” 

“ And we’ve got to stamp it out.” 

“ That’s right,” said Birdie Shaw, fer- 
vently, “ and you’re the man to do it in this 
town. 

“ Say now,” he continued, “ I came up 
here to talk over Ward 7 with you and take 
your advice. Now, I tell you what I 
thought.” 

Mr. Shaw then spoke warmly in favor 
of allowing the women and clergymen to 
conduct an earnest and thorough campaign 
of education, but favored quiet work in 
Ward 7. 

“ You let your ministers and women loose 
on the city all you want to. It’s a great 
thing in its way—great. I understand 
that. But you run Ward 7 yourself. This 
is your campaign; you’re the man that’s 
runnin’ it; and that’s the ward in this town, 
and we want it run right. Now every day 
or so I’ll come up here and talk it over with 
you and get directions. What do you say? 
Am 1 right ? ” 


A Temperance Campaign 163 

Mr. Perkins was much pleased with the 
arrangement. 

Mr. Shaw fulfilled his part of the con¬ 
tract to the letter. Day by day he reported 
the great growth of membership, and boldly 
told the high respect entertained for Mr. 
Perkins. “ You’d be surprised to see what 
an influence you’ve got on those fellers,” 
he confessed. “ I’ll bet there’s more’n fifty 
good young fellers took the pledge in that 
Club since you first came in with us.” 

Mr. Perkins was touched by this recital. 
Shaw carried home a heavy burden of 
paper-covered literature. 

“ Look a-here, Mood,” he wailed. “ Get 
onto what he gave me ! ” 

“ What?” 

“ Little temperance lessons for the Club.” 

“ Let’s look at ’em,” said the Secretary- 
treasurer, blinking over the titles through 
his glasses. 

“ Say,” said Bird, picking one up, “ listen 
to this: 'Business vs. Beer, by Elijah S. 
Perkins/ ” 

“ That’s it,” said Mood, “ work that.” 

It appeared on the next visit to Perkins 


164 


Stories from McClure’s 


that the club members had been much im¬ 
pressed by the literature. “ There’s one 
thing there that hit ’em hard,” said the 
President. “ It’s called ‘ Business vs. Beer,’ 
or something like that. Say, yyho wrote 
that?” 

“ I did,” said the author. 

“ Well, say,” said the surprised Shaw, 
“ it’s all right, anyway. It’s a good thing 
those books come in as they did, too.” 

Mr. Shaw then described vividly the ef¬ 
forts of the Liquor Dealers’ Protective As¬ 
sociation to debauch the young men from 
the paths of rectitude and Perkins. 

“ What! ” said the great Perkins, bris¬ 
tling, “ a gang of saloon-keepers banded to¬ 
gether to intimidate the voters of this city ? ” 

“ That’s right.” 

Mr. Perkins then demanded a detailed 
description of their methods and officers. 
He was particularly impressed by P. 
Hickey. His purpose became alarming; 
he threatened to seek out Mr. Hickey and 
defend the members of the Ward 7 Repub¬ 
lican Club in person. 

“ When I see that fat rum-seller,” he said 


A Temperance Campaign 165 

finally, “ I’m going to speak my mind to him 
as an American citizen.” 

“ Say, don’t you think you’d better wait 
a while ? ” said the terrified Birdie Shaw. 

“ Am I goin’ to run this thing, or ain’t 
I ? ” asked the charming-mannered Per¬ 
kins. “ If I ain’t, I want to know it.” 

Birdie Shaw retreated in dire fear, with 
the champion of Ward 7 young men still in 
a belligerent mood. 

A great danger hung over the Ward 7 
Club—the open discussion of it by its 
friends. Moreover, the days were growing 
few and the harvest was not yet. 

At a serious conference of the organiza¬ 
tion, it was deemed wise to choose Mr. 
Perkins an honorary member. 

“ If that don’t bring it,” said the Presi¬ 
dent, ” we won’t get it shor$ of murder.” 

Mr. Shaw presented the honor with much 
feeling; Mr. Perkins appreciated it very 
much. 

“ There’s enthusiasm in this campaign, 
everywhere,” he said. “ I tell you it’s fine. 
We’re goin’ to win, and as far’s I’m con¬ 
cerned, I ain’t goin’ to spare any expense 


i66 


Stories from McClure’s 


to do it. You tell your fellers I’m goin’ 
down, and I’m goin’ to get the finest crayon 
picture of myself in this town and send it 
down to ’em. When a thing like that’s 
done to Elijah S. Perkins, he don’t forget 
to show his appreciation of it.” 

“ They’ll be mighty glad to hear of it,” 
said Birdie Shaw, looking cheerful by main 
strength. 

There was truly no lack of heat in this 
no-license campaign, which the Ward 7 Re¬ 
publican Club had so ruthlessly awakened. 
The blast of the temperance emotionalist 
echoed through the overheated town; the 
cohorts of the saloon were working their 
insinuating wiles in the nether darkness of 
ward politics. Gray-faced women in black 
gowns—vestals of the Cause—went from 
door to door assailing the women in this 
wise: 

“ How would you like to have your dar¬ 
ling boy wrecked by the Demon Drink? 
Well, then, if you wouldn’t, make your hus¬ 
band vote against its being legally counte¬ 
nanced in our beautiful city. If you don’t 
you’re responsible for other women’s sons.” 


A Temperance Campaign 167 

Red-faced gentlemen, committed to the 
interests of the saloon, industriously in¬ 
quired of the young men: “ Say, are you 
goin’ to let a lot of old women dictate what 
you’re goin’ to do ? ” But amidst it all— 
the clamor and turmoil and the dust—the 
high gods who laugh their fill annually over 
American politics were most moved by the 
sight of the great Elijah S. Perkins and the 
spectral Ward 7 Club still haunting the sa¬ 
loon side by side in Ward 7. Gaunt anxiety 
covered the officials of the Club like a gar¬ 
ment. The end of the campaign was here, 
and the tremendous issue for which the 
Ward 7 Club was formed was still un¬ 
solved. A hundred hints—open, con¬ 
cealed, ingenious—had fallen flat. Their 
most heroic efforts to secure Perkins’s fi¬ 
nancial contributions had been in vain. 

“ We’re done,” said the despondent Pres¬ 
ident ; “ we’re beat to a standstill.” 

Silence from the Secretary-treasurer. 

“ Well, what do you think, you under¬ 
taker’s assistant ? ” 

“ Try him again.” 

“ Got another scheme ? ” 


i68 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ Yep.” 

“ Well, then, what is it this time? ” 

“ Anonymous letter.” 

“ How’s that?” 

“ Here,” said “ The Ghost,” passing it 
over. 

“ What’s this ? ” said Mr. Shaw, begin¬ 
ning to read. “ Oh, yes.” 

“ Dear Sir : Probably you think you know all 
there is to this Ward 7 Club, but you don’t. 
They’re foolin’ you. Take my advice. Ask Shaw 
how many debts they’ve got. 

“A Friend.” 

“Understand?” asked “The Ghost.” 

“ Wouldn’t wonder if I did. We’ve got 
debts and Perkins pays ’em. That’s it ? ” 

Nod from the Secretary-treasurer. 

“ This letter starts the thing goin’.” 

Another nod. 

“ Perkins breaks loose again. Then 
there’s where I come in and lay it out be¬ 
fore him.” 

Nod. 

The anonymous letter was posted by lov¬ 
ing hands that night. The President of 


A Temperance Campaign 169 

the Ward 7 Club nerved himself for the 
final desperate attack. 

As Birdie Shaw entered the silence of the 
awful office the succeeding morning, the 
roar of the cunning Perkins greeted him. 

“ You’re the feller that thought you’d 
fool me,” said the voice. 

Mr. Shaw was stricken with surprise. 
“ What do you mean, Mr. Perkins ? ” 

“ How about those debts of that Club of 
yours ? ” 

“ Say, what are you coming at ? ” said 
the innocent caller. 

“ You look at that,” said Perkins, shov¬ 
ing the letter in his face. “ Oh, you can’t 
fool me. I’ve got my ways of knowin’.” 

Mr. Shaw was almost speechless with rage. 

“ Lemme look at that! ” he demanded, 
snatching it and devouring it with his eyes. 
His anger settled into a calm and deadly 
determination. 

“ That’s all right,” he said, passing it back. 

“ I know who that is, and he’ll know who 
I am before this day’s over. I’ll leave my 
mark on him.” 

“ Well,” said the amiable Perkins, in a 


Stories from McClure’s 


170 

loud, barking voice, “ what have you got to 
say for yourself ? ” 

“ Well, say, here,” said Mr. Shaw, throw¬ 
ing aside all attempt at concealment, and 
standing forth in absolute candor. “ I 
tell you just how this thing is. Our Club’s 
in debt—that’s right—we’ve got all we 
want to carry. We’re meetin’ expenses for 
this campaign, understand, and it costs 
money to run a good fight. Well, then, all 
this fall these liquor men have been round 
tryin’ to pay it, and we’ve fought ’em off. 
But a few of the fellers in the Club thought 
as long as we was goin’ the other way, we’d 
ought to get some help out of the temper¬ 
ance people. They was goin’ to have some¬ 
body tackle you—only a few of ’em, under¬ 
stand, not the whole Club. 

“ ‘ No, sir,’ I says, ‘ we’re doin’ this thing 
ourselves, we ain’t beggin’.’ And we beat 
’em out. I tell you it was red-hot. I told 
’em what I thought of ’em. But afterwards 
I heard some of ’em said they was goin’ to 
write you, anyhow. 

“ And that’s what they’ve done,” said 
Mr. Shaw, with a desperate gesture. “ Say, 


A Temperance Campaign 


171 

I’d rather been assassinated than had that 
happened.” 

“ What’s the reason you didn’t want me 
to know about it ? ” asked the relenting 
Perkins. 

'‘What’s the leason? Well, here, I’ll 
tell you that right off. Did I ever ask you 
for anything? ” 

Apparently negative grunt from Perkins. 

“ Did anybody else in that Club ? ” 

Second grunt. 

“ No, nor I didn’t intend they should. I 
know you; you’re generous and big- 
hearted. The first thing you’d done, you’d 
wanted to pay off that debt. 

“ Well, you know it all now, and you can 
watch us payin’ that debt off. It’ll be 
worth it. We’ll do it, too. That Club ain’t 
goin’ to break up this election either. It’s 
goin’ to keep right on. It’s a good thing for 
those fellers, and I don’t mean to have it 
stop.” 

“You look here!” burst forth Perkins. 
“ How much is that debt ? ” 

“ Oh, probably $375, when everything’s 
all in.” 


172 


Stories from McClure’s 


“ That’s all, is it? ” 

“ Sure, sure, we’ve paid off some of it 
already.” 

“ And you say you ain’t goin’ to let any¬ 
body else pay anything? ” 

“ That’s right.” 

“ Well, now, you are! ” said the tre¬ 
mendous Perkins, dragging the unwilling 
Shaw after him like a lamb to the slaughter, 
as he proceeded to work his awful will. 
“ You are! I’m goin’ to pay it myself! ” 

“ Say, here,” said Mr. Shaw feebly, “ I 
didn’t come up here lookin’ for this.” 

“ You sit still right where you are,” said 
the meat merchant, ringing a bell. 

“ Here you,” he said to the cowering 
clerk who appeared. “ You go out to the 
safe and get me $400. Hear? I tell you 
my clerks don’t wait around when I give 
’em an order,” he continued. 

Beaten down and overcome with shame, 
Birdie Shaw left the office of the great 
Perkins with $400 in his pocket. 

“Did I get it?” he reported to his fel¬ 
low-officer, waving a gigantic cigar grace¬ 
fully towards the sky. “ Well-” 



A Temperance Campaign 173 

But the troubles of the Ward 7 Club 
were not over yet. Mr. Perkins still threat¬ 
ened assault on sight on the person of Mr. 
Hickey. 

“ Say, if they get together,” predicted 
Mr. Shaw, “ they’ll get to talkin’ about us, 
sure. That’s where we come to a close.” 

The opposing forces crashed up to their 
crisis in election day. It was a time to be 
remembered. The Ward 7 Republican lead¬ 
ers went in and out of the precincts of the 
ward and lingered earnestly about the bal¬ 
lot-boxes. The hours had passed without 
untoward incident; the dangers of the cam¬ 
paign were nearly over. Suddenly at the 
last moment there appeared on the horizon 
the two forces of danger moving from 
either direction. P. Hickey was driving 
his colt in his red-wheeled sulky; Elijah S. 
Perkins was advancing in a hack, accom¬ 
panied by the President of the Women’s 
Temperance Home Defenders. Both par¬ 
ties arrived at the curbing together. 

“ Take care there,” yelled the fat liquor 
dealer; “ look out where you’re goin’.” 

The hack-driver hesitated. The intrepid 


1^4 Stories from McClure’s 

Perkins, seizing the situation, stuck his 
head out the window. 

“You go ahead in there,” he said; 
“ never mind him. If he gets in your way 
drive over him.” 

P. Hickey, in his light vehicle, gave way, 
and swung out opposite Perkins in the car¬ 
riage. The end was at hand; the two 
forces were joined; the very existence of 
the Ward 7 Republican Club was threat¬ 
ened. Its members on the curbstone 
waited in silent horror for the final blow. 

“ Say, who do you think you are ? ” 
asked the sweet-toned saloon-keeper. 

“ My name’s Elijah S. Perkins, sir, if 
you want to know! ” shouted the opposi¬ 
tion. 

“ Well, Perkins, you want to be careful 
the way you drive round here. You can’t 
run me down in the street.” 

“Who are you?” 

“ My name’s Hickey. P. Hickey, that’s 
who I am.” 

The worst was now known. Perkins 
was nearly inarticulate. 

“Oh, you are, are you? You’re Hickey, 


A Temperance Campaign 


175 


the rum-seller, that’s been bribin’ and de- 
bauchin’ the people of this town to vote for 
your filthy business. Say, you, I’d like to 
give you my opinion of you! ” 

“You would, hey?” 

The heat of battle had reached the bor¬ 
derland of apoplexy on both sides. The 
loafers about the polls gathered close around 
to drink in the delights of this unexpected 
gladiatorial treat. 

“You would, hey?” repeated Hickey. 
“ Well, why don’t you then? ” 

“ Because I don’t need to; the people of 
this town are goin’ to show you by their 
votes what they think of you and your 
gang. When the good people of this town 
get roused, you can’t buy ’em off with your 
dirty saloon money.” 

The aroused Celt began to speak in the 
bosom of P. Hickey. “ Say, when it comes 
to spendin’ money on elections, you’re 
pretty good, ain’t ye ? ” he remarked. 
“ You don’t want to be hollerin’ round here 
too much, or somebody might be around 
that’ll show you up. I s’pose you think be¬ 
cause you’ve been fillin’ every fist in town 


176 


Stories from McClure’s 


full of money, every one else’s been doin’ 
the same.” 

“ 1 don’t need to spend money. The 
people of this city have decided for them¬ 
selves/’ 

“ Aw, go on, you big, fat butcher, you.” 

“ The trouble with you is,” proceeded 
Perkins calmly, “ you’ve lost your grip. 
You’ve lost the young men’s vote—right 
here in this ward.” 

“ See here, ye blaggard,” said P. Hickey, 
descending with great care from his sulky, 
and giving charge of the horse to a small 
boy at its head, “ I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” 

He had advanced to the hack and was 
shaking his unterrified Irish fist under the 
nose of the great Perkins. 

“ I’ll bet ye fifty dollars we’ve got the 
young men of this Ward with us! Hey, 
there, you,” he yelled to Birdie Shaw on the 
curbstone. 

The representative of Ward 7 young men 
stood transfixed—held by heavy fear to the 
spot. The hour of desolation was at hand 
for the Ward 7 Republican Club. 

Then it was that the beneficent influence 


A Temperance Campaign 


177 


of woman intervened. P. Hickey, in his 
earnestness, stood close to the hack door. 
The two men glared at each other at short 
range. 

“ I’ll show you,” said P. Hickey, 
“ I’ll-” 

All at once the President of the Home 
Defenders smelled the liquor on his breath. 

“ Mr. Perkins,” she said with great dig¬ 
nity, “ that individual is intoxicated. Do 
not pay any more attention to him; we can¬ 
not afford to demean ourselves by stand¬ 
ing here in conversation with’ a drunken 
man. Drive me away from here—immedi¬ 
ately ! ” 

Her voice was rapidly rising. “ I insist! ” 
she cried. “ Driver, go on immediately! 
And you,” she said to Hickey, “ if you 
have a spark of manhood left, you will leave 
that window now and at once! ” 

The hack-driver, turning about on his 
seat, slowly and doubtfully drove away; the 
influences of good were borne further and 
further away from the polls. The victori¬ 
ous Hickey stood triumphant, surrounded 
by admiring friends. Of all the rest, none 



178 Stories from McClure’s 

were so eager to congratulate him on his 
great moral victory as the officers of the 
Ward 7 Republican Club—after the tem¬ 
perance host had quite disappeared. 

The polls were closed, the people of Mead- 
ville had registered another careful, thought¬ 
ful, uninfluenced, unprejudiced decision on 
municipal affairs. The temperance vote 
showed a slight suspicion of gain through 
the city. In Ward 7 it had jumped forward 
seventeen votes. Yet license, after all, pre¬ 
vailed. 

The Ward 7 Republican Club encountered 
the reporter of the “ Morning Standard,” 
searching for the true interpretation of the 
vote. 

“ Say, here,” said Shaw, “ you’re writin’ 
up this thing? I’ll tell it to you just as it 
is. You just say in writin’ about Ward 7 
that there was a good deal of liquor money 
spent there, but the temperance vote showed 
a gain. And say, never mind puttin’ any¬ 
thing in about the Ward 7 Club; we’ve had 
enough advertisin’ for one year.” 





























































































Ijcc 21 ktO 




OCT 2 1901 











































